She thought her mother was a vampire. It was my fault.
Crimson splatters line the walls, crime scene tape girds the door. Shattered glass, a single lily, and pristine white shagpile carpet grace the floors.
He lifts the needle, abruptly silencing the Shostakovitch piano concerto.
Tipping back his trilby, he scratches his head. Who still uses a record player?
Image credit: SouthernRebel/pixabay
The fire hissed and fizzled as the moisture in the kindling bubbled into vapour and the twigs caught alight.
Ramesh hadn’t expected to be making camp in the jungle’s damp undergrowth overnight. But then, he hadn’t expected his shot to knick the flank of the deer instead of felling it where it stood.
My fingers trace the ridges on the back of her hand, puckering the skin. The silken thread of her life pulled too tightly.
“Lack of turgidity. A sign of dehydration,” my doctor-cousin informs me brusquely. But I know better. The Fates await her with sharpened scissors and a single eye.
I didn’t post in this week’s YeahWrite Microprose #312 grid, but I love flash/microprose and wanted to play along with the other YeahWriters. The single word prompt was hand. This piece, about my maternal grandmother, is nonfiction.
The child of migrant parents, I grew up walking in two worlds, fitting comfortably into neither. In the 1980s beauty role models who looked like me were non-existent in the western society my family made their home. They were equally absent in the culture of my heritage.
The first flickering fingers of dawn stretched over the horizon. Flug held his gossamer wings stiff, as a zephyr whispered through the grasses and caught his weight.
He loved summer parties, but it had been a long night and he was tired. Coasting on a steady breeze instead of flapping his wings felt like sweet relief.