Everybody knows her—the girl in the neighborhood who never plays at her own house. Feet always tramping through somebody else’s yard. Feet chasing us boys and girls across blades of grass more familiar to her than her own luscious green.
“Wild,” my mama called her.
“Free,” I silently renamed her.
Then, long after the nondescript truck crept away, the neighbors’ grass yearned for the tender crush of her feet, but to her own green carpet, her prints still remained a stranger.
Her grandma, leaning against the kitchen door of her house, calls her home, every single day.
That is a short short story,only six lines. I guess we don’t need to know everything.
Powerful flash fiction Charmaine: So much said . . . such deep emotion . . . so few words.
Oh heartbreaking and beautiful…