Friday started well; sunny and the promise of a weekend of writing.
But on the bus, the ping of her phone email brought dark clouds to her horizon. Another rejection. She took out the notebook she always carried, filled with poems and ideas. What’s the use? She’d never be published.
After a long day, she climbed wearily aboard for the journey home.
‘Excuse me.’
An elderly woman squeezed in beside her.
‘You left this on the seat this morning. I peeked. They’re good.’
Through the window, a glorious red sunset. Red sky at night, writer’s delight.
A great weekend beckoned.
But on the bus, the ping of her phone email brought dark clouds to her horizon. Another rejection. She took out the notebook she always carried, filled with poems and ideas. What’s the use? She’d never be published.
After a long day, she climbed wearily aboard for the journey home.
‘Excuse me.’
An elderly woman squeezed in beside her.
‘You left this on the seat this morning. I peeked. They’re good.’
Through the window, a glorious red sunset. Red sky at night, writer’s delight.
A great weekend beckoned.
