For every year Martha shrunk a little. It had been sixty years now; Sixty years since her father changed her future. Every day she paid with prayers in the convent. Paid for her disgraceful wishes that would taint the honor of the family.
Every year she had returned; now bending down she touched the moss and for a moment she recalled the softness of her daughter’s silky hair.
They always said that she was stillborn, but Martha knew better. She still recalled the muffled whimpers sixty years ago and the veil of lies that grew before she left their house.
For some reason my very first association with the picture was that it was a hiding place for a dead child somewhere under all those mossy rocks. From that I wanted to weave a story about family pride and repentance, and also at the end the lonely mother is the only one that remains to remember.
Friday Fictioneers is a blogging community under management of Rochelle Wissoff-Fields that reaches close and even above 100 contributions of great fiction writing to the same picture. I try to comment as many as possible, but it has been a long time since I managed to comment on every one. I try to return every visit though and I see so much great writing, that also improves my own.
March 18, 2015