When the Grass Whispered

Knives to Paintbrushes

Clara waltzed around her living room, picking up various scarves and blankets, placing them into her basket as she went. Her canvas and paints. The brushes she uses to breathe world's into existence. She bundled herself up in her wool coat and opened the door. She walked out her front gate and down the street . Turning off the main road onto a small dirt lane she walked through the woods. A mile later the woods transformed from shady trees, to a foggy Moore. She loved the fog. It always made her think of ghosts. Drifting endlessly. Wanderers. But lonely. Like her. People see her on the street. They don't really though. There is nothing special about her. Nothing to notice. Nothing deserving of attention. Grubby hands, mousey brown hair that goes just about everywhere, her short stature and grey gaze. She works in the mourge. She always takes the morning shift. Walking through the streets of her small village in the Irish Hill country at dawn, there is always fog. It dances. It swirls and spins. That's why she came to the Moore today. To paint. She wants to capture the fog. Trap it in a constant state of song. Never let it free. Reaching her destination she takes out her blanket. Spreading it on the ground. She pauses, listening. To the grass. The tall grass whispers sweet nothings into her ear. She smiles. Continuing to set up. She settles in and begins to create. Swirls, Grey's and blues. Using sweeping brush strokes she begins to imagine and realize a land of ghosts on her canvas. Time flies with her brush. It contorts the colors to her will. She strides through the land she has created. Satisfied. She begins to pack up. She walks away from her land of ghosts that dance in the fog to one of their left behind shells on cold slabs of unforgiving metal.