Photo credit: Martyn Fletcher
He saw the seedpod break free, twirling lazily, no rush to drop.
Beside him, she continued her impossible, nonsensical explanation. If he turned, he’d see those dark lips, much-kissed, now sour-twisted to form such words. But he couldn’t lose the seedpod. Not now.
It floated on unfelt breezes, left, then right. He wondered if it knew its fate. If it embraced its doom.
The log shifted as she stood. Her footsteps crunched across the forest floor.
Out of options, the seedpod landed, immediately indistinguishable from the other dead things, that had grown and hoped and tried to soar, and failed.
Word count: 100. Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers challenge. Big thanks as always to our hostess Rochelle Wisoff-Fields! This one was a bit more of a stretch from the original photo prompt (below) than usual, but in trying to think of an Eneana equivalent of the whirligig carnival rides, this image stuck in my head and demanded to be written about. Click on the link to read the other stories written for this prompt, or to join in yourself.
Photo © J Hardy Carroll