PHOTO PROMPT © Sarah Potter
They were in full bloom now. Red. Pink. White. Yellow roses had been Anna-May’s favourite. A bouquet of fresh buttery roses always cheered her up. Especially after they argued. Shame flushed through him as he remembered. Raised fists. Hurt and anger. Sobering shame. She always forgave him. Until that day her skull cracked. He had wiped the kitchen wall clean of her blood and his tears and got the shovel from her garden shed. He glanced at the ground beneath the rose bushes. Now Anna-May would always have her yellow roses near her. And she would always be his.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. The Challenge is to write a story in 100 words or less. Submit your flash fiction to the frog link below and read what other’s have written too. Thanks to Sarah Potter for her photo prompt contribution.
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.
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Zahra leaned towards the mirror, dabbing eye cream around her eyes hoping to see those dreaded fine lines vanish. She turned her face in the dim light, trying to catch a glimpse of the smooth-faced beauty that once won her pageant titles.
Her husband appeared behind her reflection. “Still as beautiful as ever!”
She smiled softly. She never noticed just how grey his hair had become. Were those wrinkles on his face from years of laughter, or from sadness? Guilt pinched her heart.
She took his face in her hands and planted a kiss on his eager lips.
The image made me think of a flower that has lost its bloom, and that led to thoughts of ageing beauties. Zahra, in arabic, means flower.
This story was in part inspired by a poem I once read about an ageing couple, (the title and poet eludes me, sorry). The husband looked at the lines on his wife’s face and found beauty in them, because they were borne from the history of their lives together.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by, Rochelle Wiesoff-Fields. The challenge is to write a full story in 100 words or less. Click the blue frog to read more flash fiction from other writers.
get the InLinkz code