Inner musings of a Wayward Writer
He wakes up, not in the golden warmth of his hive like all the other bees, but someplace dim and dusty. The ground is hard beneath him, and the air is stale and sour. He rolls from his back onto his stomach and lifts himself onto his feet. They clink on the steel surface of …
He sits on a branch, shifting from one foot to another as he puffs his feathers out against the cold. His beak, once a sharp point, is now blunt. Even his lovely charcoal feathers have lost their gloss and sit raggedly like an ill-fitting coat. He stretches out his tired old wings. For a moment …
Writing on Tangents