“Look at her, that’s all she knows how to do.” She could hear them whispering behind her but she ignored them. She knew those voices anywhere. They’re her mother’s gossipy friends.
Bug off, she’d sign to them if they could understand her.
Instead, she focused on the sensation of chalk between her thumb and forefinger. Art was the only thing that had ever felt natural to her. Who needs words and literature when you have art? Those would be the first thing she’d say if she could talk. Sighing, she returned her focus to the scratching of chalk on concrete.
This story is written for 100 Word Wednesday. It’s been a while since I’ve written a story for this challenge.