Chef at the Trans-Siberian rail wall, between Moscow and Khabarovsk. CC 2.0 photo by Leidolv Magelssen.
Volatile clouds poison the sky, and remaining leaves are loosed from nearby trees. I harbor hope in the rusty valves of my heart with each passing fall and select a pencil. I always choose a pencil and begin to write, anything but an adventure. It’s chipped china dolls and abandoned carnival grounds.
Burnt coffee sat untouched on the hotplate. She never drank it, only made it for him. An habitual adventure for him, distant cities, unexplored lands, and gifts of untold fortune. X had always marked the spot, the place where real treasure was kept, the place I’d cross and he’d hope to die. X marked his indelible love on my child-sized heart.
Cumulonimbus clouds and acrid coffee, omens of his departure. Dad ultimately chose adventure; it was the true X.
I write in pencil and enjoy the option of an eraser. It taunts me. The thing about life, it can’t be erased. You cannot undo what’s been done.
© Grace Black
Written for Flash! Friday Micro Fiction Contest
I should be writing for NaNoWriMo but couldn’t resist popping in at Flash!Friday. All right back to the novel.