Her hand rested on the crisp paper. She leaned in and took a whiff. It smelled like rain and old summers....memories. The pencil lay idle between her fingers. The paper fluttered lightly and she smoothed it with soft strokes. There was a faint bitter smell of roses coming from far away. Maybe they were dead.
The candle flame danced with the paper and cast shadows on her. Her breathing evened. Her head rested uncomfortably on her arm. Her elbow ached. The pain grew with every passing moment but she ignored it testing herself. The pencil moved on the paper creating light patterns. Almost invisible. She sang her name. It was lost in the quiet night.
She liked candles. Not that the power was out. She just liked them. She liked dead roses too.
YOU ARE READING
Prose and Cons
Short StoryA compilation of snapshots. Any feedback, healthy criticism and suggestion is appreciated :) Also a huge shout-out to @Thazbook who was my motivation to do this. Toodles.
