she slept with the sock, made of softest, bluest cotton, small enough to slide on her thumb. On the 390th day, her husband unfurled her fingers. Enough, he said, and took the sock, but not before she pressed it to her face, missing the powder smell, the last evidence her son once existed.
Another 53 word story from the good folks at PRESS53, this requiring the use of 'sock' as a launchpad. Peace
By day, I'm an uptight and proper academic - you know, a publish or perish type who resides in tall towers with the likes of Rapunzul. In the evening, I morph into a lovable mom and wife, play with my children, hang with the hubby.
But when darkness falls and the house stills, I write.