Years have passed, but I still recall every single footstep leading to our old mill.
My father’s voice still echoes:
“We will never sell, never”, but what can a single shotgun do against a paid-for law-enforcement?
We buried him, mother and I, before I was eleven, she went into the river, and I was placed in orphanage.
I caress the fronds beside the stream.
“I want to be a lawyer”, I said. The headmistress was stern but fair.
As mother wrote, the hidden chest is easy to find. Ancient deeds are evidence enough for my lost youth to be avenged.This is a story that has been brewing inside for quite some time waiting for the right picture. I hope it works with flashbacks and memories to a credible story.
Friday Fictioneers is a great group of bloggers who write stories to the same picture each week. Curated by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, it attracts the creme de la creme of internet short fiction writer. Read and be surprised about the creativity and skill of all the authors.
June 2, 2016