“Alice is fine.”
I had to ask, “Alice is your mother?”
“Flint. Alice is our mother.”
Leighla laughed, and I saw a younger version of her. Long grey-black hair and deep brown eyes. She wore a headband that meant something, but I didn’t know what.
Taran smiled, “You’re remembering who you are, aren’t you, Flint.”
This is part 23 of the serial story I’m working on for Lisa McCourt Hollar‘s #55WordChallenge flash fiction challenge. Please, go read all the other entries in the challenge this week. It’s flat amazing what gifted writers can say in just 55 words.
If you wish to read all the parts of the story, they are in order, from most recent to first, here.