writing

Wildflowers in the Mist

Sally laid on the sofa in her best dress. A boney aged finger, outstretch, pointed to the stone fireplace. Her eyes focused on the mantle where his picture sat, staring back at her. She knew she would see him again soon.

As she wheezed out her last breath, time became frozen in the main room of their humble home. She lay there dead, not to be found, not to be mourned, not to be buried or laid to rest.

The surrounding forest grew closer as the decades passed. Vines of kudzu and honeysuckle crept over the home and blocked any sunlight from entering the house. Spiders spun their webs, making the cabin their new home.

Aspen trees filled in the once tended garden while the meadow of wildflowers which drew them to settle here remained. In that field, many secrets lie buried, hopefully never to be found.


The start of something new…

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