Richard laid branches in a wide circle on the frozen grass; then the skeletons of old Christmas trees which Flora’s father had stuffed behind the shed every January; and finally a layer of straw, like a bed. Almost comfortable.
‘Ready?’ said Richard.
Flora would never be ready, but she bent to lift her end. Her father’s body was heavier than she had imagined, and she and Richard had to swing it three times. Richard held out the matches, but Flora shook her head. Instead she watched the white grass around the edge of the fire melt into green and then blacken, as if seasons had passed in the space of a minute.
A piece flash fiction which is supposed to be 100 words, but I’m 112 this week, oh dear. Usually I can slice and edit with no problem, but this week somehow everything here I wanted to keep. Friday Fictioneers is brought to us by the wonderful writer Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, and the picture this week is supplied by the equally wonderful writer, Sandra Crook. Click here to join in with Friday Fictioneers, or here to read other people’s.
Tin House, my US publisher has posted the first chapter of my novel, Our Endless Numbered Days, on their blog. Have a read, if you like.