A girl was dancing in the street, her braided hair spinning at the exact same angle as her skirt. Her figure shone bright with each revolution that brought her out of shadow and into the pouring sunrays caressing the asphalt.
A man leaned against Bidwell’s doorframe, looking on but not seeing the girl. His eyes were glazed over like he was recalling something distant.
The images are seared inside my mind still. Only the useless details though. Years of therapy have yet to bring back the face of the man who left the bag against the hydrant, right before it all went black.
For Friday Fictioneers. I added my dark tale to the many dark inspirations that this week’s picture has instilled in the brilliant minds of the Fictioneers.