When the Dust Settles.

“Think you’d survive if you jumped?” Andrea asked me, looking at me with sorrow in her eyes. We both looked down at the ground laying underneath. The forest was finally starting to come back after the tornado hit four years prior.

“Probably just enough to bust your ankles, I guess. I don’t think you’d actually die.” I replied after pulling myself out of my head. We rolled a joint for the walk. Often we found ourselves back in this spot. After each storm came and went, this was one of the last remaining havens to be able to come to, after all the dust finally settled. The bridge had been decommissioned for years when the first storm had hit. The years had taught us to be prepared for the worst. Andrea lit the joint and inhaled.

“Beats staying here, waiting for the next storm.” She coughed as she exhaled, passing it to me.

“Isn’t that the truth.” I laughed.

This is a response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, graciously hosted by Priceless Joy. Photo provided by Dawn M. Miller.



I ran my fingers across the gritty, coarse surface of the rock formation. Completely upright, it lent itself to my hands. The small crevices and valleys allowed my fingers to rise and fall as my feet made their way into circle after circle. It had been three years since my mother passed; not without silence. We had come here together so often to sit, backs against the side by side forms. We gazed at the sky as the sun descended into it’s routine rest. She’d recite poetry, I’d listen with open ears.

That on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms
And my roots will set off to seek another land.”

On that day, at the hour, she did lift her arms. And she did, find roots in another land. Till I reunite with her, this is the space in which we find each other again, momentarily.


This is a response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Photo prompt graciously provided by Louise with “The Storyteller’s Abode”.