| General Fiction posted April 5, 2023 |
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Self-describing text below.
Sunday Walk
by Mario PIERRE
She cups my face in her delicate palm and her eyes sparkle. Her cheeks flush with anticipation. “Would you walk me home, darling, like you used to do, Sundays after church? Cutting across the fields, holding hands, relishing spring’s fresh blooms and gleaning white lilies?”
I marvel at the array of blue-green veins beneath her quivering hand. Emerald streams flowing through dry, parched land.
“Grandma, it's me, Elijah! I promise I’ll visit again next Sunday.”
75 Words Flash Fiction contest entry
She cups my face in her delicate palm and her eyes sparkle. Her cheeks flush with anticipation. “Would you walk me home, darling, like you used to do, Sundays after church? Cutting across the fields, holding hands, relishing spring’s fresh blooms and gleaning white lilies?”
I marvel at the array of blue-green veins beneath her quivering hand. Emerald streams flowing through dry, parched land.
“Grandma, it's me, Elijah! I promise I’ll visit again next Sunday.”
I marvel at the array of blue-green veins beneath her quivering hand. Emerald streams flowing through dry, parched land.
“Grandma, it's me, Elijah! I promise I’ll visit again next Sunday.”
 Recognized |
#13 April 2023 |
Reminiscences of a fading memory.
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