The Potter

I sat on the white window sill of Kerry’s bedroom. It was winter, outside the drifts had heaped into high blankets. The sparkling snow stuck to a metal lamppost and piled on the dark, wet branches of maple trees in the front driveway. Everything sparkled with cold. The sky felt low to the ground, as if I would just reached my hand would sink through the vast sea of thick, saturated gray above me. As always in Colorado, the chill of winter had been kept at bay long enough, and it engulfed Aspen completely in its cold depths in one blow. The heaters in this huge house worked furiously, and fruitlessly to heat a truly frigid house.

Written by one of the literary blog agents. (Mia)

Get the rest of the story in my next post of The Potter