by Gill James
They've called up on us again. They always do when something like this happens. So I get out my colours, my pencils and brushes and my pallet and I try to paint.
All I can smell as I try to exercise my art and craft is the linseed oil. The strong tobacco and the rich coffee are gone because the cafés are shut today. The children aren't playing on the streets anymore. Even the traffic is subdued. No one goes out unless they have to.
I can't work. I need the jollity buzz. It may have gone forever since those fervent believers blew themselves and a few hundred other people up.
I sigh, and put away my pens and palette,my colours and my brushes and wish I wasn't an emergency artist.
About the author
Gill James writes fiction for children, young adults and adults and enjoys writing experiments.
She is published by The Red Telephone and CaféLit, amongst others. She is a Lecturer in Creative Writing.
She edits for Bridge House, CaféLit, Chapeltown and The Red Telephone.
She has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing
Post a Comment