Flash Fiction

Remember When

Written for the Sunday Photo Fiction Challenge.  200ish words of fiction based on the photo prompt:

 

bookstore

 

Nostalgia immediately stirred her senses, making her happy and sad all at once. Her mouth watered as the tang of fresh baked sourdough hit her taste buds, reminding her of the warm little shop that used to be just a short bicycle ride from her home. Her toes wiggled, remembering how the cold edge of the shoehorn tickled her heal as it guided her foot into those loafers she coveted as a 6th grader. What ever happened to that nice man in his suit and tie who, after helping her on with the shoes, had watched her walk back and forth across his store, confirming that the fit was just right? Her eyes stung as she remembered shopping with her mother. The plan they followed didn’t begin and end with a single massive purveyor staffed with strangers. It required more thoughtfulness. “Mr. Selby sponsors your brother’s baseball team, so we’ll get the potroast at his butcher shop” her mother would tell her as they developed their route. Community and connectedness mattered more to her mother than the time it took to make multiple stops. As she stepped into that bookstore and smelled it’s glorious mustiness she thought “Sorry Amazon, we’re through.”

Standard
Flash Fiction

The Unbeliever

This story is in response to the Sunday Photo Fiction challenge. Writers submit a 200 word story inspired by the photo prompt provided each Sunday. Click the blue frog at the bottom of the post to view all stories for this week and submit your own.

angel quartz

“You know that’s rose quartz AND an angel don’t you?”. With one eyebrow hiked up nearly into her hairline and her mouth scrunched in a smirky slant on the side of her face, it felt more like a test than a simple request for confirmation. When I didn’t immediately respond, she followed up with “Well, you better be careful. If you get that too close to your cold, dark, atheist heart, it may explode into a million tiny shards and blind us both!”. We laughed, probably too hard, but her question and concern were well-founded. What was a lifelong unbeliever doing clutching that tiny idol? How had that “hippie dippy” store, wedged between the coffee shop and self-serve dog grooming facility, finally lured me in to peruse it’s mystic wares? I had been able to successfully navigate past it for years, unaffected by the wafting tendrils of frankincense, sage, and patchouli that, at times, could tickle the senses from more than a block away. I don’t even know what it means to smudge, this place had nothing to offer me! Why had today been different then? How did I end up with her cool, smooth wings resting in my palm?

Standard