APL Writer's Group Challenge for Week of April 22, 2015
The following line from Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children By Ransom Riggs provides the prompt for this week’s challenge.
“I picture a person shrivelling up and crumbling to dust like the apple on my night stand.”
Complete for April 29/15
The following line from Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children By Ransom Riggs provides the prompt for this week’s challenge.
“I picture a person shrivelling up and crumbling to dust like the apple on my night stand.”
Complete for April 29/15
Letting Go
By: Ann Edall-Robson
As she walked down the hallway to the back door, the reflection in the mirror caught her eye.
A smile crossed her glossed lips. Once pampered, supple and unwrinkled the sight before her reminded her of the treasured intimate feeling that had come over her the first time they had been together.
Life had handed them a lot of diversity over the years; but they had always worked together without complaining. Snug in their surroundings and the relationship. Often taking on more than they should.
Now, fading pigment and weathered from life itself, there was a worn and tired look that crept into the mirror. Parched and withered with a near the end feeling, her gaze dropped. A longing for the familiar soft caress across her fingers slipped into her mind.
Where had the time gone? When did the tattered edges form? It is so hard to let go. To move on.
With one last tender touch, and a gentle goodbye, she removed the much loved old leather garden gloves and walked out the door.
By: Ann Edall-Robson
As she walked down the hallway to the back door, the reflection in the mirror caught her eye.
A smile crossed her glossed lips. Once pampered, supple and unwrinkled the sight before her reminded her of the treasured intimate feeling that had come over her the first time they had been together.
Life had handed them a lot of diversity over the years; but they had always worked together without complaining. Snug in their surroundings and the relationship. Often taking on more than they should.
Now, fading pigment and weathered from life itself, there was a worn and tired look that crept into the mirror. Parched and withered with a near the end feeling, her gaze dropped. A longing for the familiar soft caress across her fingers slipped into her mind.
Where had the time gone? When did the tattered edges form? It is so hard to let go. To move on.
With one last tender touch, and a gentle goodbye, she removed the much loved old leather garden gloves and walked out the door.
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