One of my writing partners suggested using the first line of Margaret Atwood’s Alias Grace as a writing prompt. Talk about pressure. The sentence in quotes belongs entirely to Atwood. The rest is mine.
“Out of the gravel there are peonies growing.” Red, Deoxygenated blood red. She can almost feel the petals between her fingers.
A distant memory. Sensations from a past life. The scent, not unpleasant, Rolls around her brain like a drunken marble.
Buds, tightly wound, Ripe with potential. Sequential unfurling.
And the ants, Weaving a serpiginous line over the path. Up each stem, Drawn to the center.
If her leg was a green stem, Blood coursing along the phloem and xylem, Tiny ant appendages would whisper their passage. Up and up.
What do they seek?
Where is her center now?