Tuesday, 11 January 2011


She reads the letter, and her cold core fires. How dare they? She flings it aside, and stamps out with the dog, deaf and blind to everything but the magnificent doughy anger rising in her veins. She flounces across fields, and stomps over stiles, attention devoted to crafting a protest from sharply barbed words. When her feet arrive home, she is surprised; back here already?

Inside, she flings aside her coat, plonks herself down, and writes out her wrath. The words bubble, haughty and indignant, each one calculated to scald their reader. She picks up the maligned letter to copy the address, and stops. And reads it again. And again and again and again.

Now her face burns. She tears up her page, and sets fire to the fragments. She’d misunderstood. She’d railed and ranted for nothing. The letter didn’t say what she thought it had said. But at least nobody knows, she’s realised in time.

She slinks back to what she was meant to be doing today, tail tucked between her legs.

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