A day late, almost a word short (I finally found a place to add one!). Here’s my story for Al Forbes‘ fantastic picture prompt. I appreciate feedback and I read every comment even though I sometimes struggle to reply quickly!
Eloise squinted in the June sun and fingered the battered paper poppy on her lapel. People had been staring her whole life, but this was different. The Mayor was saying something about oldest surviving… her ears tuned out, her memory washed in… then her name, and Eloise was meant to speak.
Oldest surviving, she thought, her hand moving to the scar on her hip where they’d taken away her sister. Then it flew back to the poppy, and her mind to Bobby. Either of them might have been standing beside her. Oldest surviving, she thought, really just meant longest bereft.
Thank you to Sandra Crook for today’s picture prompt. I have so much I could say, so many different observations that could lead to stories, but this is the one the Muse chose this morning. Your comments and critique are very welcome.
A few weeks in, Alice was beginning to feel motherhood was her own personal Groundhog Day. She was Bill Murray, working her way through the same piles of diapers and washing and pain and tears – her own, as well as Aiden’s – over and over again.
Like Bill, she tried something subtly different each time, and although the consequences were considerably less hilarious in real life, love was still the goal. And that first time Aiden smiled, together with every time he waved his tiny fat feet in delight, she knew spring couldn’t be more than a short time away.
Slightly belated, herewith my contribution to this week’s Friday Fictioneers. Our prompt is from The Reclining Gentleman, who appears to have reached spring already. Toronto is finally getting some winter, so I think our daffodils are a while away.
EDIT: Thank you to Danny James for the title.
Ella shuffled in behind her sisters and pretended to check the clock. William was already there, talking to some friends in the opposite corner. Perhaps tonight was the night she would speak to him, introduce herself, and he would fall in love with her.
He looked up and her eyes darted back to the time. But not fast enough to miss what his did. He’d looked over. He’d looked over and he’d fallen in love. But no one falls in love with a crocus when it blooms amongst daffodils.
Her sisters giggled and waved at the boys; Ella turned away.