After he failed to wake up

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

Mama Loves Birds

Mama loves birds but is afraid to fly. She rests now, secure with her crooked smile, the whorls of her thumb print, her cigarettes and Pep-O-Mint lifesavers, quilts and romances, morphine and x-rays, her hollowed bones. The pilot swoops closer to the leaping waves. The wind shifts, and she takes wing, fire-polished ash.








This little birdie found a home at BLUE FIVE NOTEBOOK. Thank you wunderbar editors Michelle Elvy and Sam Rasnake for publishing my words. Peace...

POST-PARTUM

Every morning, after coffee that did not warm her, toast she did not taste, Lucille pulled on her coat and walked to the cemetery. Today she bought pink tea roses and let the vendor keep the change. Snow dusted the grave. She fingered the pills, placed the last flowers before the tiny headstone.




A very micro flash for the weekly Press53 Pokrompt.

Inspired by LAST FLOWERS, sung by the incomparable Thom Yorke of Radiohead.






Peace...