Postcard-sized flash fiction about the things we think we know about others, life, death, and everything in between. And it all starts with an image...

Home

Home. Where I shed my coat, my day, my tears. Where we said things we wanted to take back and sat in silence when there was too much to say.
 
Where small feet pattered to the same six hiding places over and over again until none of us could stand to hide or seek again—at least until the next day.
 
Doors were slammed, by accident, or as a fiery kind of exclamation point. Dinners were brought home in containers or cooked on the gas stove, eaten and spilled. Books were scattered on tables, the floor and in the cubby under the stars by someone desperate for a quiet escape.
 
Drains clogged. Garbages were tossed. Beds outgrown. Bathrooms renovated. And no matter what color we painted the walls, it was and is—home.

Postcard-sized flash fiction about the things we think we know about others, life, alien abduction, and everything in between. And it all starts with an image...
2 Comments
  • Michelle Sampson
    Reply

    H.O.M.E.

    Wow, you really said all that. And you said all that on a postcard.

    It spoke volumes to me with the efficiency of one who has learned her craft well.

    Happy Thanksgiving, girlfriend. From My Home to Yours.

    November 27, 2019 at 10:30 pm

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