Micro fiction: “I stopped to smell the flower”

I stopped to smell the flower at the roadside. Its petals dripped red upon the ashen-grey ground. My back strained beneath my book-filled backpack. Them I dared not leave behind. I followed the painted flowers to a ramshackle building. There I found the artist on his knees, crying silent tears. “The paint’s finished,” he sobbed. I sat down, took out a book, and started reading. He watched as the words traced colours in the frigid air.

(Originally published on Paragraph Planet on 1 August 2018.)

2 comments

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.