Six Sentence Sunday, 4 September 2011 (The Lost Pissarro)

The herd-mothers approached as well, and circled around her. She ought to have been frightened (said the city girl in her head) but wasn’t, for all that those deadly horns were flourishing around her, held aloft like lances on festival parade. That was it, she supposed; they were aloft, the heads up and not lowered to charge. They could kill her neatly, any number of ways, those creatures. Some equestrian would be able to tell just how many hands high they stood, but their shoulders rode above the level of hers, and their flanks gleamed in the sun, white in the sun and purple, gold, and blue in the shade, a lovely symphony of reflected color and light. Artificial creatures—no, creatures of fantasy, come to life, or back to life—in this most artistically artificial environment, this American Bois de Bologne.