I decided to do something new: write a short vignette about the image below, similar in style to Erin Morgenstern’s flax-golden tales (I love them!). The difference? The shorter vignette fits into a larger story, which I will continue to write until the characters tell me I’m done.
Feedback always appreciated.
We took what we could from the asylum: blankets and sheets from the dormitories, old clothes and boots buried in rusty lockers, and canned food from a thin pantry. Father isn’t sure if the food will hold up, but we decide to take it anyway, just in case.
We have a few rough days: early chills and early nights, irritation and frustration.
“I miss Sasha!” I cry out one day when he begs me to keep going. “She was nice and kind, and she had pictures of pretty things like cathedrals.”
“Cathedrals?” Father spits out the word like it is poison.
“I wanted to see them and I never will!” My voice wavers. I am on the verge of tears.
“You want to see cathedrals? Find God?” He pulls me to a branch, where a knot like an eye stares back at me. “There. This is it. This is all there is.”
I look at the eye and sob, my hands catching the salty tears as the drip from me.
The next day I see the flask abandoned in a hollowed trunk.