Creative Writing, Flash Fiction, The Fine Line


The moment I allowed myself to perceive the image of him was an incident I have very little to say about. Words fail me. The essence of that one tiny act seems but a mustard seed. And that is all there is to it.

I was like small child, in a white dress, who had found a trinket. It had colours like lavender, and when the sun shone on it one might have seen glimpses of mauve, aubergine and crimson. Beautiful it was, but minature. I put it in my pocket, told no one about it and forgot. I woke one day to find that this trinket, inside my pocket, had been put in the wash. Swimming though and though the waves and bubbles contaminating everything.

It was a disaster when my modest family came to find that all their whites where now purple.  There was really no telling.

It was best not to say anything for a number of reasons. For honesty’s sake the truth could be told  in some months when everyone’s hearts were restored. But, perhaps maybe, I shall make my confession now.


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