Sunday Whirl words: italics; word not used: banana
mlmm’ wordle words: bold
The sound of wind chimes drifted in; hung from the gutter of the eaves, the passel of notes could be impatiently heard over rumble of the railway terminal. Like a rum cull drunk on the wrap of his mistresses’ legs around his waist, she sang a glossy tune.
Of the fabric of her life before decline, before age discoloured and burnt. She rarely felt the slip of her mind now, the knife of madness chipping away at her ivoried tower. Each past stroke of the jackboot to her emotional gut melted. She merely placed her worn face in her chin and turned it towards the invisible sweetness of off-key wind chime notes gathering against her window pane.