PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Her favourite flower was roses. Various mediums depicted Dorothy’s unapologetic floral partiality. Printed fabrics of light and dark hues dressed her windows and tables and crocheted patterns draped over her armchairs in stern solidarity.
A ceramic, gold-tipped single rose pendant dangled at her throat.
Another strange and eccentric old woman to the outside world. She knew what people said about her.
Her mother was named, Rose. Died giving birth to Dorothy. Years later, her daughter had been Rose too. She remembered the tiny coffin that took all the love Dorothy knew to its equally tiny grave.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less. Submit yours by clicking the frog icon and read other’s flash fiction.