Thank you, John at Right Hand Pointing for publishing my short story, Spring Day. Check it out on their website and down below.
“Two hands. One hand and one hand that looks like a book,” Evelyn explained to Gregory as candidly as she could. Because he was her little brother and was only five whereas she was six, she had to take pains to make sure he understood things like what their mother’s paintings meant. They lined the greenhouse glass walls, her mother’s painting studio. They were stacked, some of them a foot, two feet wide against each other, against the glass. Outside was a blue and green day, she had explained to him too, because it was spring, and not winter anymore like it was when it was cold, when it was white and grey. Time traveled so slowly in the greenhouse, watching their mother paint. In the afternoon she would make her special tea and sit in the stillness and quiet, away from the outside and looking out, and the things she saw she turned into scenes, scenes of things she remembered. “Watch this,” Evelyn said, and opened the latch and threw wide the glass door to the outside, and in she went, into the world her mother was painting. Into the painting with her brother Evelyn went, where she liked most of all to be on days like this, becoming her mother’s little brush strokes—her shades of blue, her shades of green.