Meat, preparation of scrapple specifically, is my morning task. I woke well before the chickens and dawn’s golden glow. While stewing scraps of pork, I daydream.
Remembered images of last March’s Mud Sale linger.
People travel many miles to sample our breads, stews, and chutney while they peruse our crafts and quilts made by hand. I prefer faces. I study them, slopes, hollow curves, narrow eyes, wide chins. There’s a story in every one.
Weathered faces are my favorite, all the feathered lines as if you can smell their forgotten childhood laughter and the acrid heartache that has taken its place.
“How much?” the wrinkled woman asked.
I smiled. “Free.”
3rd Place Winner Micro Bookends
Fiction Written for Micro Bookends:
A New Micro Fiction Contest. Come write!
“A WEEKLY MICRO FICTION CONTEST WHERE WE PROVIDE THE FIRST AND LAST WORDS AND YOU PROVIDE THE REST.”
This is a well done feel-good tale. I prefer the darker stuff, but how can I dislike this one. I enjoyed that while the people perused the shop’s items, the narrator perused the faces. This line: “smell their forgotten childhood laughter and the acrid heartache that has taken its place.” Evokes all the senses by describing the smell of something we are supposed to hear. And all of this is summed up in one powerful word.