Six Sentence Sunday, 21 August 2011 (The Lost Pissarro)

The world had shifted around them, and Angie Stavros took a sort of grim satisfaction in it, that now most of the world felt as dislocated as she did. Welcome to my world, she thought as she caught a glimpse into Central Park, a flash of unicorns in the grottoes. Ironically it was a lot safer to go jogging in Central Park now, at least if one feared human predators. She picked up her pace. The wind brought a sense of restlessness and trouble, a wind with no name but very like its cousins who blew out of the emptiness of the Sahara or the ocean voids of the Antarctic. The wind blew her hair into her eyes and tugged at her broad-brimmed hat, and prickled on the exposed forearms under the rolled sleeves of her sensible shirt with its many pockets and its epaulets.