The morning is pink and wet, newborn with last night’s rain. Dewdrops of tears dry on green cheeks of leaves that droop from the weight of the storm. Stone souls still darkened with what they absorbed in the night, their color intense and alive. Waiting, waiting for the warm morning sun.
Flash Fiction Fridays
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"I will breakfast from the cupboard where uneaten dreams are kept"
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"I foresee the successful future of a very mediocre society."
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The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
absolutely love the images you decribe. i like the ‘newborn’ morning being ‘pink and wet’. very appropiate. brilliant.
also very intense.