She painted the sky with stars, hands aglow with the dust of aeons. “It’s the best medium for art, really,” she insisted, though the Raven didn’t need convincing. He’d played a bit with light himself after it burned him black. Dangerous, absolutely. But there was nothing quite like stardust for conveying vast, open space, nothing that came close. He nodded and winked while deciding what the next trick he might play on her brother, Wolf. She returned the wink. “Here’s an idea that might help…” she started.
I’m a bit frustrated with my longer prose efforts of late. Nothing seems to come out right; it’s like I am trying to speak but the words are all garbled nonsense. Instead, I think I’ll start writing the occasional vignette to break up the monotony of my cantankerous rambling and the entirely inadequate poetry I foist on you. Are micro-vignettes a thing? Or it that a redundancy?