Apparently, I am now hooked onto this Flash Fiction group. I love taking a picture and weaving a story, however short, from what I see. Here, I share with you what I felt when I saw this one. If you see something different, feel free to let me know. There's so much room for exploration in this picture.
Stained
The steady plunk of berry juice dripped crimson onto white sand
around her bare feet, the red divots trailing a path of hard work behind
her.
Her stained fingers gripped the splintered handles of the baskets she
carried, the weight in her hands echoing in the tight strain across her
shoulders and back.
Every day, day in, day out, her footprints marked the sand, her
berries crushed their juice through the slatted floors of the baskets.
Each evening, when she arrived, she entered the leaning door, ducking
her head beneath the crossbeam.
“Evenin’, Pearl.” She rested her baskets on the scratched table and
leaned over her friend on the bed, the back of her weathered hand brushing against the woman’s forehead. “I brought your favorite again.
Think you can eat somethin’ tonight?”
A bowl relaxed in her fingers, a spoon traveled to a crooked mouth. Purple stains twisted down a wrinkled chin.
A smile stained their lips.
Trying out my poetic wings, which hopefully will not pull an Icharis and melt while I soar too close to the sun.
Recently, I joined a Flash Fiction page - every Friday, I absorb a picture they post, then I write what comes to me based on the scene they provide. Below is the picture and my entry. Apologies for the Poe-like tone--it was what came to me last night at midnight (when I decided to ignore sleep and write instead).
Night
Heat sears the air,
Shimmering distortion vibrates a sandstone roof.
The fire of afternoon brilliance
Shades the dips and dells of
Craggy rock and verdant moss.
It melds heat into the sun-kissed bones
Of citizens below.
Unconcerned, they while away treasured moments,
Chatting with the Reaper
Above the gong
That tolls their final hours,
Sun-blinded and unprepared.
Light flees across the slopes,
Lining leaves and roots
With golden shadow.
It plays in the crevasses and ridges,
Chases the darkness down the cracks
Before dancing away,
Flirting with the whelming blackness
Of Shadow.
Like a laugh that dies before it is heard,
The colors fade.
Amber, then silver, then gray,
And purple.
The citizens turn their faces skyward,
The knell sounds its clanging strokes.
Four hours left,
Three, two, and one,
And then,
Blackness waits.
The night
Sweeps over once more.
And there are no stars tonight.
