Unravel

Orange ball of wool, yarn on a bed used as a prompt for creative writing: flash fiction/microfiction
Photo by Philip Estrada

Memories unravel from the hem of his old woollen jumper.

Burnt orange trail, a trip hazard for thoughts that fall in waking hours.

An intrusive yarn, texture reminiscent of an embrace that’s scratchy yet too warm to refuse in recurring dreams of a lifetime of winter.

 

Inspired by Sonya’s Three Line Tales Week Thirty-Three.

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Terminal

Photo of ferry terminal at twighlight used as prompt for a flash fiction story
Photo by Charlie Hang

And so I have done it again, ignoring the glaring neon warning as he ferried me across decades to the losses that anchor me to vacant spaces; the chain pulling taut with less and less give as flotsam and jetsam gather and entangle in its rusty links.

On shore, telegraph poles line up like dominos before the fall, the dialogue between my ghosts echoing down the wire; different faces, same conversation.

I bid farewell to thee and seek refuge on my island, for I am the lighthouse keeper.

 

Inspired by Sonya’s Three Line Tale Week Twenty Three.

Moonrise

Week 2 of the 10 week series. Click on the image above to begin your travels. This week’s edition is a poem titled ‘moonrise’, inspired by a George Inness painting of the same name. What do you see in the painting? What story comes to mind for you? Share your impressions in the comments…

If you’d like to continue your travels through the tumbleweed, check out the menu item of the same name for others in the series.

Chrysalis: The Inbetween

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Pulling back the curtain of canvas and hanging Wisteria, Ella considered the day ahead. There was a certain predictability in the routine of others that let her know roughly what time it was, and whether it was a weekday or weekend, if she lost track.

The jogger, a slim woman always dressed in black that made her look slimmer still, stood out with her swatch of red hair that she neatly tied back in a ponytail with a single braid, a metronome keeping time to her pace. She slowed to a stop in front of the kiosk, stretching her arms up toward the sky- grey in its non-committal stance, leaving her guessing whether the forecast from yesterday’s paper should be trusted. Picking up her pace after grabbing two bananas and a coffee, the jogger approached with her usual gait, prompting  Ella to once again  imagine what she’d say if someone asked, rather than surmising her story and leaving her to translate their misinterpretation in looks of pity, charity or just plain indifference. The best she’d come up with  was an enigmatic

I like to live in the space between each breath.

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