Chilled wind passed my face and deep soft mud below my feet as I walked. I looked up to the gigantic dreary cloudscape which opened to untie its form.
The image had gone astray, I looked up again but the shape moved out somewhere in the infinite grey.
Minutes later I discover, looking around, there was more creation, airborne with the strong wind in the direction of their northern homes. Later, back in car as I drive home, Mud beneath my shoes gradually heats up. It is my favourite, the scent of soil.
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I write a lot, which keeps me off the streets and out of trouble. There is always something to write about, always a new story to craft. Not writing, for me, is like trying to hold back a sneeze. Learning to write was the most powerful influence in my life. I can still remember the awe I felt when I realized I could put real words onto paper and tell out a story. From that first ‘a-ha’ moment I knew I wanted to write.
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