Warm sand meets my bare feet and tells of losses, of sorrows but now also hope. The sea might have taken all away, but writhen canopies murmur soft songs of consolation in my starving ears. Filigree shadow patterns on the ground remind me of the way your hair used to dance in the ocean breeze, and I can hear your laughter in the wind. Memories of screams and tresses of your dying hair plastered to your skull are waning as striations from your nails are becoming faint lines on my muscular forearms. They are my victory-insignia to your wanton chicanery.
Not even this beautiful picture could refrain from from going really dark. Last week I tried to read as many as I could, and my sincere apologies to any I never visited.
Friday Fictioneers under the great leadership of Rochelle has developed to a be a community of 100s of entry every week. We try our best to tell a story on 100 words. I try to meet the requirement exactly, and this time I did.
March 26, 2014