AnElephantCant pretend that he has green fingers
His touch with a trowel or a hoe is unsure
He cultivates keenly for hours
Kills off most of the flowers
But he does produce a mountain of manure
Friday Fictioneers is hosted by the wonderful Rochelle, the undisputed master of what I call Sound Bite Fiction.
She sets the weekly challenge, and the standard.
The garden in Dave’s fascinating photo looks about as well tended as my hair.
And the gate is in much the same condition as my face.
Ah well, nobody is perfect.
The idea here is to write a story of around 100 words based on the picture below.
I wonder if I will ever fall asleep.
The bed is vast and empty without her.
It is comfortable, but I am not.
I lie on my back, my side, my face.
I stretch, I curl, I sprawl.
I miss her warmth, her nearness.
The room temperature is perfect, mine is not.
The open windows admit the night air.
It is cool, refreshing.
The sky lightens, the birds sing in the trees…
View original post 28 more words