photo by Bruno Nascimento via Unsplash
Sheila looked out across the slick landscape – the eruption had rippled and bubbled across the entire island, choking everything under a thick black crust.
The crater on the south of the island still smoked like a snoozing dragon and while the village of wooden and tin shacks had been largely missed, the locals had lost several goats and pigs to the slow creep and hiss of lava.
The correlation spectrometer was up and running. As she checked to ensure the tripod was level, she saw – nestled by one of the stand’s feet – a tiny speck of green, the curl of a vine with a single leaf unfurling from its top. Sheila smiled.
In the middle of Christmas craziness at work. The people of Bristol’s need for sparkly baubles, wreaths and flowers knows no bounds, it seems. So I’ll be commenting and reading rarely from now until after Christmas. Apologies if I miss a lovely post or comment.