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.
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“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?