A chequered blanket, which had been carefully placed in a woven basket, stirred just as a flame of orange burst across the sky. There were no witnesses who saw it move again; as if someone was punching it. The air blew no wind. The basket sat motionless on a slab of concrete. To be precise on the doorstop of number 13 Casta Way. It would be awhile before Mrs Weaver went to put her empty milk bottles out and for her to nearly tread on her new parcel. A bird can be heard chirruping in the distance. A soft, pleasant call – perhaps to a female. The dreamers embark on the last of their journeys. The snores will soon turn into yawns.
People quickly re-shut their eyes while they adjusted to the glare seeping through their curtains. ‘What a difference to last week’ they will think, glad the horrible weather is over. Suddenly, some of them will remember one particular event that everyone had been gossiping about. However, Mrs Weaver wasn’t one of these people. She had a long day ahead of her and the sooner she could get started on her work, the better. Mrs Weaver soon opened her crimson door. If she hadn’t decided to see if there were any clouds brewing she wouldn’t have stumbled upon the deserted object. Her heart skipped a beat. She leant forward but then rapidly bolted upright. She anxiously glanced up and down the street. It was empty. She grabs the basket and slams the door shut. Her breathing gets heavier as she peels back the blanket. There lies a sleeping baby. A gasp. A thud. Alice Grace wails. She has no idea why a strange woman is staring at her.
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