This stand-alone story was written for Three Word Wednesday (this week’s words: abuse, cramp, and hatred).

Della threw the plastic grocery bag onto the floor. Outside the foggy perimeter of her rage, she heard the crunch of glass breaking. Great. There went the jar of spaghetti sauce. Now, she’d have to clean the mess off the other stuff in the bag. It was Herman’s fault, every bit of it.

“Easy does it.” Herman placed his bags carefully on the counter. “I wasn’t ogling that girl–”

“Don’t lie to me. How could you miss her, with all that curly red hair?” Della shoved her lank blond hair behind her ears, and her stomach twisted in a cramp.

“Well, she was right in front of us in the check-out line – ”

“So you admit it.”

“Shit.” Herman stalked out of the kitchen.

Della knew she should let it go, but she couldn’t stop herself. Fury welled up, transmuting into magma which would erupt as abuse. Later, she’d be hugging Herman and telling him she was sorry. But was she ever truly sorry? Perhaps she lay perpetually in wait, like a spider in the center of an meticulously-spun web, for the next time hapless Herman cast his glance upon a red-haired girl.

She followed him to the living room. He was a full head taller. Didn’t matter. She could shout him down any day of the week. “Why do all the girls I catch you staring at have red hair? I don’t get why you’re with me. I’m not your type.”

He sighed. “How many times do I have to say this? You’re my type in all ways, honey. I love you. The only thing I don’t love is when you act like this.”

Della stood on her tiptoes. “Yeah, and a red-haired girl would act better, wouldn’t she?”

“Please quit shouting at me.”

“I’ll talk any way I want.”

“I’m going to hang out in the woods for a while. I’ll be back later.” Herman started toward the back door, but Della scrambled in front of him.

“You aren’t going anywhere,” she snapped. “Dream about your precious redheads while I’m gone.”

She went into the back yard. Herman’s house bordered National Forest property. Trees of all kinds soared to the boundless sky. Della spent a lot of time here, but when they got married, she’d move in.

Get married? What was she thinking. Herman wanted a redhead, not her.

Tears sprung to her eyes. Where were they coming from? She was pissed, not sad.

Was she being silly about the redhead thing? Sure, Herman loved her, but how could she be sure that he wasn’t settling for her as his “Miss Good Enough?”

The girl at the store had been gorgeous. And Herman had been ogling!

Biting her tongue so hard she tasted blood, Della moved out of Herman’s yard and into the woods. Near a large elm tree grew a ladyslipper, a kind of orchid. Rare to find them growing wild. She sat on a nearby rock, gazed at the flower and thought about Cinderella. Don’t think about Herman. Don’t think about redheads. She’d stare at the ladyslipper until she was fit company again.

Breathe in. Breathe out. The tips of her nostrils tingled as she drew in air which became a part of her, then she exhaled, sending part of herself outside. As she focused on it, the ladyslipper seemed to grow. And grow some more, until it dominated her sight. Somehow, like her own breath, Della felt herself being pulled toward the flower. What a weird sensation, to become a flower’s breath and dwell in a tiny world with silken fuchsia walls. If only life could always be like this. All she could feel of her body was her nostrils and the flow of her breathing through them. Endless waves, like life. Nothing stayed the same, did it? Picking a fight with Herman. Making love with him. Her moods, vacillating with the rhythm of how she felt about herself at any given second.

Cycling leads to shackling.

The flower exhaled her, and she opened her eyes – yes, she had eyes again – and felt, again, the rhythm of her breathing. Though she could willingly have stayed in the flower much longer, she didn’t feel rejected. The orchid was normal-sized again, yet it appeared brighter. The green of the forest foliage had intensified. And in her chest, Della felt her heart pumping red blood throughout her body in continuously flowing cycles that didn’t shackle, that kept her alive and kept her loved. Maybe not by herself, not yet, but by Herman.

More tears sprung to her eyes. God, what had she done? This had to stop. No more self-hatred projected onto her sweetheart. If she kept up the madness, they’d lose each other. Was that what she wanted?

No. With all her might, no.

She ran back into the house. Herman stood by the sink, washing his hands. He’d cleaned up the mess she’d made when she broke the jar of spaghetti sauce. The items from the bag she’d thrown – cans of mushroom soup, green beans, and mandarin oranges – sat, sauce-free, on the counter.

Della went to Herman and hugged him. “I’m sorry.”

He kissed the top of her head.

“I mean it this time. I don’t want to act like a bitch anymore about redheads.”

Herman raised a skeptical brow, but his eyes remained kind.

He had every right to skepticism. Look at how she’d been treating him. But in time, he’d see. She would earn his trust, just as he had earned hers all along with his steadfast kindness, no matter what the wounded part of her which always felt second-best had tried to say.

How could she feel second-best, most of all to her own folly? She’d just been an orchid’s breath.

Tags: flash fiction, magical realism, short stories, Three Word Wednesday
Filed under: Appalachian fiction, Southern fiction, Three Word Wednesday, flash fiction, short stories

(I wrote this for Three Word Wednesday — this week’s words are bait, jump, and victim.)

outside her cell, the wild woods beckon
but bashing her brains against cement,
the girl can’t think how to climb up
to the high window through which
sunshine sometimes spills

when she cries out in loneliness
something pushes up through a rough-hewn hole
in her basement floor, like bait for her to grab
it’s not food, and it’s not drink
but an arrow with serrated edges

she uses it to pierce her heart, but
somehow she never dies, then a voice responds
to her cries, and she jumps, lobbing the arrow, to
pierce the heart of whomever gets too close
too close, too close to her blood

an arrow named fear
an arrow named jealousy
an arrow named not good enough
an arrow named outrageous misfortune
it doesn’t matter, they all wound, if not kill

she hears moans from outside
but she moans louder that she’s the victim
of him, of her, of her family and the entire world,
red-faced and squalling in the cell she constructed,
beating her fists against block until they bleed

hollow years pass, and the woman watches
the tops of trees swaying, in emerald contrast to
her world of gray, and sometimes, at night, she sees
a shining moon and hears water bubbling outside:
the only sound that soothes

unlike her, water is strong — it permeates
she needn’t climb the walls; instead, she can
become water, seep through the floor of her cell
to the basement, then down to the groundwater
to flow anywhere she will

in her dreams, she washes clean the hole
through which all the arrows have come and
smooths out its jagged edges, and as groundwater,
she flows out everywhere to heal the wounds she caused
she soothes pain when she can and showers love where she may

could she be the water?
can she flow away from her
self-imposed exile of fear and folly?
dare to dream, she whispers: first the woods,
then the oceans, and no more broken hearts

Tags: poetry, Three Word Wednesday
Filed under: poetry

(I wrote this for Three Word Wednesday — this week’s words are gentle, praise, and vulgar.)

seeds small as dust motes,
indistinct from dark soil flecks,
lie separate from each other,
in vulgar plastic squares

first, germination
then lone stalks of green
unfurl petals of red and violet
who praise not water but flame

lightning cracks, blossoms ignite
and from each blazing flower curls
chromatic, jasmine-scented smoke
that coils like rainbow snakes

serpentine mists mingle on air,
carry seeds far to fall on fertile ground
there to grow, gentle-hued and free to sing
sunbeam songs and drink of moonlight’s milk

Tags: poetry, Three Word Wednesday
Filed under: Three Word Wednesday, poetry

(I’ve posted this for Three Word Wednesday – this week’s words are hassle, inject, and wealth.)

In every limb there lives confusion
Replete with staring, empty eyes
Searing hot in minds that feed on callous, offhand lies
Every chiseled heart a sandstone
Every tongue is scissor-sharp
Hey, does it hurt to grow up but not wise?
Hey, does it hurt to grow up but not wise?

“Soothe us with your clammy kindness or
Inject us with your fearsome knowledge
We can see what you are, don’t you know
Take our thoughts and minds and wealth
And then claim you care about our health
We can see what you are, don’t you know
Don’t you see you cannot fool us
Don’t you see you cannot hassle us
We will live through this, too.”

Conspiracy a revelation
And fear a grand sensation
Hey, does it hurt to grow up but not wise?
Hey, does it hurt to grow up but not wise?

Tags: poetry, Three Word Wednesday
Filed under: Three Word Wednesday, poetry

This teensy stand-alone piece was written for Three Word Wednesday (this week’s words: feign, imply, and virtue).

My wife sees green horses, but to me, they look blue. We agreed to a compromise: for us, horses are “bleen.”

We’re the only people I know who see bleen horses. Everyone else says they see brown, black, white, or mottled horses. My wife and I feign nonchalance when friends and family mention drab-colored horses. What color are horses, really? Consensus implies that something is wrong with our eyes.

But maybe not.

We won’t go so far as to say it’s a virtue to see bleen horses. Maybe horses are kaleidoscopic, dizzying in their whirling colors and patterns which none of us can see.

Tags: magical realism, nanofiction, short stories, Three Word Wednesday
Filed under: Appalachian fiction, Southern fiction, Three Word Wednesday, nanofiction, short stories

(I wrote this for Sunday Scribblings and Weekend Writer’s Retreat – it features Nate and Laurel, from my novel-in-progress Heart’s Chalice. These stories take place before the main action of the novel and are not necessarily being written in chronological order.)

Hiking to the waterfall, Nate spied something poking out of the dirt off the trail. It looked like a rock, but it was oddly curved and glimmered with a dusky sheen like polished hematite. He stopped and prodded the dirt around it with the tip of his boot.

Laurel stopped, too. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.” Nate squatted down and began digging with his hands.

Laurel sat down beside him. “Looks like a rock to me.”

“That’s what I thought at first, but there’s something weird about it.” He kept digging. Before long, he pulled the object out. It wasn’t a rock but a piece of dark wood, smoothly shaped like a thick crescent moon. On it had been carved a strange face, visible not only from the front but also on its sides, in profile. It wore a half-smile, and its eyes were slitted as though in deep thought.

Nate turned the figure over and over in his hands. He’d bet it was old. Part of the fun of hiking was that you never knew what you’d find. Ghost flowers. Mushrooms or weird fungi. Once in a great while, an arrowhead.

But running across an artifact was quite an event.

“Wow,” Laurel said. “Can I see it?”

He handed her the figure.

She examined it with a slow smile.  “It reminds me of you.”

“Huh?” That was the last thing Nate had expected to hear. Laurel was like hiking. You never knew what she’d say. And he loved her for it.

“Look at its face,” she said. “So serene.”

Nate couldn’t help but chuckle, and he touched her leg affectionately. “I think it looks sleepy.”

She giggled. “Sometimes you’re sleepy, too.” Then her expression sobered, and she put her hand on his. “But you’re the steadiest, kindest person I know.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so.” Nate didn’t think of himself as serene, but he knew about steady. Steady was a matter of survival in his turmoil-tossed household.

“Really, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” To his surprise, tears had sprung to her eyes.

“Fight with your mom this morning?” he guessed.

“Yeah. She gets so mad at me, no matter what I say. And I’m sick of it.” Her head was down, but Nate could tell she was crying.

He pulled her to him. Yeah, Mrs. Nave could be pretty hard on Laurel. Laurel’s mother meant well, but the two of them were just so different that finding common ground was tough, and misunderstandings arose all too frequently.

“Well, don’t worry,” Nate said. “You can say anything in the world to me.”

Laurel hugged him tightly, crying so hard she couldn’t speak.  He held her as close as he could.

When she calmed down, he pressed the figure into her hand. “Here. Keep this.”

She looked at him, surprised. “But it’s yours. You found it.”

“Yeah,” Nate said. “But I found it for you.”

Tags: flash fiction, short stories, Sunday Scribblings, Weekend Writer's Retreat
Filed under: Appalachian fiction, Heart's Chalice, Southern fiction, Sunday Scribblings, Weekend Writer's Retreat, flash fiction, short stories

(I wrote this for Sunday Scribblings and Weekend Writer’s Retreat – it features Laurel and Nate, from my novel-in-progress Heart’s Chalice. These stories, though they take place before the main action of the novel, are not necessarily being written in chronological order.)

Holding the pizza box high in the air, Nate opened the door to the rec room with his other hand. Laurel went in, and he followed. The smell of the pizza – extra pepperoni, extra cheese – made Laurel’s mouth water. She hadn’t eaten anything since this morning, before school.

They pulled chairs up to the pool table.  As Nate opened the box, Laurel heard the sound of footsteps. Crap. Usually, Nate’s parents gave Laurel and Nate a wide berth. But not always. This was probably Nate’s mom, Alice. Nate’s dad stayed too drunk to negotiate the steps down to the rec room.

The door opened, and Laurel was proved right. “Mind if I join you?” Alice asked, as though in challenge.

Nate stood and indicated the chair he’d been sitting in. “Come on in, Mom. You can have my chair.”

“Are you sure?” His mom’s gaze glinted like the wet surface of a jagged rock in the creek bed.

Laurel’s heart twisted in sympathy for Nate. Alice was in one of her moods. Laurel hoped things wouldn’t get ugly, though she knew Nate wouldn’t raise his voice.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Nate pointed to the pizza. “Look here.  Pepperoni.”

Standing by the chair Nate had offered, Alice scowled. “You got the pepperoni because you know I hate it.”

“No, Mom. I–”

“Don’t lie to me.” Her voice cracked like a whip. “You planned it all out, to keep me from eating with you.”

Laurel’s fingertips went cold, and her heart knocked in her chest. The walls of the rec room pressed on her. She wanted nothing more than to leave. Dare she suggest that she and Nate go to her house? No, that would make things worse. She needed to stay out of this.

What could Nate say? He didn’t dare point out to Alice that she’d eaten pepperoni before and liked it. He didn’t dare point out that he and Laurel hadn’t even been thinking about her when they got the pizza, that they’d assumed she would keep to herself as she usually did. Any of those comments would provoke a hateful response and ratchet up the confrontation.

Neither rhyme nor reason had any place in Alice’s world. Oh, the hate in her heart. But no, Laurel reminded herself.  it wasn’t about hate. Alice was sick. But that could be hard to remember when she was being so nasty.

Nate closed the pizza box and handed it to Laurel. Then he faced his mom. “Okay, what kind of pizza do you want? I’ll order one for you, and we can all eat together.”

Wow. Laurel wouldn’t have thought to answer her in that way.

“Do you have money?” Alice snarled.

“Sure do.” Nate pulled his wallet from his pocket and showed her.

Alice sputtered, unable to find anything else on which to hang a tirade. Muttering to herself, she clambered back up the stairs from which she had come.

Laurel felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. With shaking hands, she handed the pizza box back to Nate. The thought of eating made her feel sick.

Nate took the box, then grasped her hand in both of his. “It’s okay, honey.” Then he got a piece of pizza and took a bite. Chewing slowly, he sat with a sad, faraway gaze until Laurel gently touched his hand. He came back to himself and smiled at her.

“Have some,” he said. “It’s good.”

Nate’s strength amazed and humbled her. Laurel would have cracked long ago if she’d grown up with a mom like that.

Though Laurel and Mom didn’t always get along, Alice made Laurel better appreciate her family situation. At least Laurel didn’t have to spend her day-to-day life warding off the potentially toxic effects of other people’s demon-haunted rabbit holes.

Tags: flash fiction, short stories, Sunday Scribblings, Weekend Writer's Retreat
Filed under: Appalachian fiction, Heart's Chalice, Southern fiction, Sunday Scribblings, Weekend Writer's Retreat, flash fiction, short stories

(This is a stand-alone story, written for Three Word Wednesday.)

Waking with the sun, Jonathan Sizemore Fouts rose clear-headed for the first time in days. He dressed quietly and tiptoed out of his room. If Fred, his roommate, woke up and got to talking, Jos wouldn’t get going until noon. Normally Jos would listen and nod, getting a word in here or there as he could. But today, he wouldn’t let anything or anyone keep him off the mountain. It had been too long.

He climbed in his old boat of a car. The engine turned over. What a sweet sound. Sweeter to feel tires on the road. And sweetest of all: as Jos drove up the highway, Buttercup Retirement Community shrunk in his rear view mirror until it disappeared.

In his mind, Bertie Jean fussed: an old man like you shouldn’t be climbing no mountain. Bertie Jean had talked more than Fred, God rest her soul, and had been a darn sight fussier. Jos had found peace and quiet in whittling, building cabinets, and spending time on the mountain.

He patted his jeans pocket, glad he’d remembered his Case knife. He might want to whittle. And Fred had told him there was a twenty-foot waterfall off Coyote Branch Trail. This might be Jos’s last chance to find it.

He parked at the trailhead and got out. The trail was rougher than he remembered. No wonder, after two years of walking tiled halls. Jos moved cautiously, lest he slide on a twig or stumble over a rock.

How long could he keep this up? The waterfall probably lay farther ahead than he could hike. If only he’d known about the waterfall when he was a younger man. But he couldn’t negotiate with time.

A hundred yards up the trail, Jos was breathing hard. He sat on a stump to rest and pulled out his Case knife. A fall of pine branches lay nearby. Jos picked up a random branch and started whittling.

Thirty minutes later, Jos had the finest little pine cup he’d ever seen. Now, what had he wanted to do next? Clarity was ebbing away. But he was thirsty. Water sparkled in the creek branch. He dipped his cup into the water, then took a good, long drink. Delicious.

Maybe he wouldn’t find the waterfall, but he wasn’t ready to plant his butt back in Buttercup quite yet. He was darned if he didn’t have more energy now than before he’d started hiking. So he’d keep going. Just a little while longer. Why not?

Jos hiked up the trail, and the trees became sparse and the lay of the land grew rockier. The creek branch narrowed. He had to be getting close to the waterfall.

Looking at his watch, Jos saw that he’d been hiking for four hours. How had that happened?  But he still wasn’t one speck tired.

He heard big water, though there was still no waterfall in sight. To follow the branch and find the fall, he’d have to climb a rocky slope. If anybody had told him yesterday he’d be climbing rocks, he would have told them they were crazy, if he could have told them much at all. But now, he positively sizzled. He hadn’t felt like this in years.

No, decades.

Like a bobcat, Jos scrambled up the rocks, and there, high up, he saw it – a waterfall at least twenty feet high, maybe more. Amazing. Maybe he could return to Buttercup now. At least he’d have the memory of the waterfall. When he could remember it, that was.  His stomach knotted. But he needed to start back while he still felt good. It was the sensible thing to do.

After he got another drink.

Jos felt for his jeans pocket which contained the cup, but he wasn’t wearing jeans anymore. He looked down and saw brown britches.  In a deep pocket, he found his pine cup. Why had he thought he was wearing jeans? His brain must be getting addled again.  He couldn’t remember putting on brown britches. Heck, he couldn’t even remember that he’d owned any.

He sighed. Physically, he felt great, but his brain must have gone on the fritz again. Too bad. He needed to leave before he got too confused to find the way. But first, he’d get his drink. Jos leaned over the branch, and the sun, now high in the sky at noon, illuminated its surface. In the water shimmered the image of a young boy with brown hair falling across his forehead.

He knew the boy. The boy was him.

Not Jos, though. Jonny. Watching his reflection in the creek branch, he smiled, and the boy smiled, too. Jonny felt his smile grow wider, and his chest swelled with joy. He had his life to live again. Why? Something to do with the water? With his quest? Or maybe just because he’d had guts.

Jonny cried out in joy to the sky. Then he took another good, long drink.  When he was done, he placed the cup he’d carved as Jos into the creek branch. In due time, the cup would be carried far, far away, just as Jonny’s life would, over time, flow in its course.

For many decades to come, he hoped.

He remembered Carla, the girl he’d let get away. Not this time. And his parents – and grandparents – they’d still be alive. How good it would be to see all of them! And there was Uncle Bart, who lived next door and was good at playing the mandolin. This time, Jonny would make time for lessons.

Jonny had grown up near Coyote Branch Trail, and he still remembered where home was.

Time to get going.

Tags: flash fiction, magical realism, short stories, Three Word Wednesday
Filed under: Appalachian fiction, Southern fiction, Three Word Wednesday, flash fiction, short stories

(This piece, a riff on my novel-in-progress Heart’s Chalice, was written for Sunday Scribblings – the prompt is “wonder.”)

Playing on the piano the piece he used to love, she turns her face up to the room’s only light and closes her eyes. His face, as she recalls it, paints itself on her lids. Since she can play by touch, she’ll keep the world out and breathe life – music – into his image for as long as she can.

Driving home from his university office, he hears his favorite classical piece. The pianistic style is hers. His breath catches. Superimposed over the highway, her fingers move on the keyboard, those slender fingers he’d kissed long ago. Tears blur his vision. The fingers fade; the music remains.

Later that evening, his fingers fly across the computer keyboard, crafting a novel influenced by the book he and she had loved best. If only she could know he was writing this story; if only she could know why. But surely she can’t and never will. Writing it will have to be enough.

Before bedtime, she takes from the shelf their favorite book. She wants to read it again, though over the years, she’s read it so often that she could recite it from memory. But it wouldn’t be the same. The sight of the words on the page takes her closer to him, though he could never know.

That night, in a dream, she goes to him. He opens his arms to receive her.

That night, in a dream, he waits for her. She comes, with her arms open.

They embrace. Oh, the wonder of action-at-a-distance. But before either of them can speak, faces and touches dissolve by stark daylight, becoming after-images that torment battered hearts.

Awake yet sleeping, together but separate, they shudder, hug only themselves, and sob silently against their pillows.

Tags: flash fiction, short stories, Sunday Scribblings
Filed under: Appalachian fiction, Heart's Chalice, Southern fiction, Sunday Scribblings, flash fiction, short stories

(I wrote this for Three Word Wednesday – it features Laurel, from my novel-in-progress Heart’s Chalice. These flash fiction pieces, though most of them take place before the main action of the novel, are not necessarily being written in chronological order.)

While Aunt Sophie worked, Laurel sat nearby on a stool. Her legs weren’t long enough to touch the floor, so she dangled them back and forth. For the last couple of weeks, every time Laurel had come over, Aunt Sophie had been working on the waterfall painting, the last in her Mountain Series. Today, she’d said she would finish it.

To Laurel, it looked finished already. But Aunt Sophie insisted it needed another smattering of cloud color here, another brush stroke for foliage there. The waterfall seemed so real that Laurel couldn’t help but wonder if she’d get her hand wet if she put her hand into the painting. Well, sure she would, but not with water.  She’d also make a hole in Aunt Sophie’s painting. And she sure didn’t want to do that.

So she waited. Laurel and Aunt Sophie could spend hours talking and giggling. But they didn’t have to. They felt so comfortable together that they hardly needed to talk at all. Like now.

With her paintbrush, Aunt Sophie added more foam to the waterfall, then she turned from the canvas. “Voilà!” she said. “What do you think?”

“Is it finished?”

“Well, there’s always one more brush stroke I could do, but…” Aunt Sophie studied the canvas.

“It looks so real.” Laurel had seen waterfalls on television, though not in real life. “Is it somewhere you’ve been?”

Aunt Sophie studied Laurel as closely as she’d studied the painting a moment before. “No, but–”

“What?” Aunt Sophie was acting funny again, and Laurel wondered just how much she and Aunt Sophie had in common. Sometimes, in what she thought of as waking dreams, Laurel saw things which came true later. But she felt weird saying anything about it. Mom would think she was crazy, and even though Aunt Sophie was what Mom called a “free spirit,” maybe Aunt Sophie would, too.

“Well, let’s just say I’m a mental traveler,” Aunt Sophie said.

“You mean, you dreamed this up.”

Instead of replying, Aunt Sophie peered at Laurel again, then she bustled around, putting up her brushes and paints.  Laurel lost herself in the waterfall. She fancied she could hear the sound of the water gushing down. Even the rocks looked real, lubricated with green moss and the water’s flow.

But the painting had changed. The field of view was bigger, and instead of just the waterfall, the creek, and rocks in the creek bed, there were two tall cedar trees rising from an area covered with fallen leaves and ground cedar.

Had those things been there before? Laurel didn’t think so. A painting couldn’t paint itself, and Aunt Sophie had put most of her supplies up. Laurel left the stool for a closer look and spotted two people lying down between the trees.

It was her and Nate. Only older. Maybe old enough to drive. And smooshing their lips together.

“Ewww,” Laurel exclaimed. Yeah, Nate was her best friend, but she wasn’t about to do that kissyface stuff with him.

Aunt Sophie turned from her supply cabinet. “What’s the matter?”

“There’s cedar trees, and well…”

“Saint Nicholas, maybe?” Aunt Sophie’s eyes sparked with mischief.

“No. Two people smooching. How could I miss something like that?”

“I don’t know.” Aunt Sophie was wearing what Laurel thought of as her Mystery Smile.

“What do you see when you look at the painting?” Laurel asked.

“Only what I painted.”

Laurel’s mind whirled with wonder, but when she tried to translate the wonder into questions, they wouldn’t come. Maybe questions were too brash.

And sure enough, when Laurel looked at the painting again, all she saw was the waterfall, the creek, and the rocks in the creek bed.

Sometimes Nate’s big brother took her and Nate on picnics in the mountains, and Laurel would love to go to a waterfall like that someday. But she was glad she didn’t have to look at her and Nate smooshing their lips together anymore. Everybody knew boys had cooties. Even nice ones.

Aunt Sophie kissed Laurel’s cheek. “I’m calling the painting done now.”

Tags: flash fiction, magical realism, short stories, Three Word Wednesday
Filed under: Appalachian fiction, Heart's Chalice, Southern fiction, Three Word Wednesday, flash fiction, short stories