Sighing, she wondered when so much grey had managed to fill the window frame.

She loved winter, when she could stay home to fill the empty canvas below with her own imagination. Sometimes it was a white river with occasional fish, or a giant slide with little sliding cars, or the lacy trail of an exotic bridal gown. But her favourite was when the flirty flakes twinkled outside as if she were the princess in the snow globe.

She shared all her secrets with Orchid and Aloe, for they never looked at her strangely when her fingers painted or rearranged the scene or counted the flakes, never insisted she look at them, and they never buzzed in her head using big long words.


Written for The Friday Fictioneers 3 Feb 2017 with photo prompt by Roger Bultot

13 thoughts on “The Winter Canvas

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