Photo credit: Rebecca Siegel
All year, this grove is frosted. They say a winter nymph mourns her lost love here, that these icicles are her tears.
I have never seen a nymph. Every description of her differs.
But I know the shape of sorrow. I know the face of loss.
I grasp an icicle, shocking against bare skin, seeping in, numbing.
Aid me, winter nymph. Cauterize this hole he left. Cool these steaming sobs. Freeze these caustic embers.
Whitened leaves shiver, sparkle, tinkle in the chilly breeze, an almost-tune.
Then silence. The icicle melts, abandons me.
Once again, I find myself alone.
Word count: 100. Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers flash fiction challenge. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting, and to Dale Rogerson for providing the original prompt photo (below). Click the link to join in, or to read the other stories written for this prompt.
And hello again, everyone — it’s good to be “back” from NaNoWriMo!
Photo © Dale Rogerson