Gregory McTwittle

Realization Acceptance

The twinge is waning, thawing out rather well. The pain isn’t so dire, after all.

 

    Constellations of the bulbs, so red, puked themselves into a line. Not a thin one, mon cher. It peeled away with days, with time. But, God, I hate the singe, the charring of my fleshy tissue. It’s better now. The biting stopped. Seeing feathers on a bird is, after all, much better than a drifting one, though not as appealing. It fits so well though, there in its place. The colors seem to blend. And I must admit it’s looking rather robust, much better than that drifting one, torn and soggy from the trip. Contrarily, the desire for a feather in the air still remains.

    Gregory McTwittle sees the light of the sun in the glitter of the lake that nestles him in between the steep, Colorado Mountains. There’s a glint in his blue-gray eyes. The scowl of morning work fades. McTwittle’s eyes spread wide, for the passion of the inspiration comes forth in the form of something beautiful. He feels shame in his underestimation.

Reviews

[Broken.]

Ooo. I like it.
Accepting huh?