I wrote this story in response to Lillie McFerrin’s five-sentence fiction prompt, midnight. She typically posts a new prompt weekly at http://lilliemcferrin.com, and I enjoy participating when I can.
By Laura McHale Holland
Her name wasn’t even Midnight. That’s just what I called her because her face was framed with obsidian waves, and she painted her nails and lips to match. She had an air of mystery about her, too, especially when she would play her flute by the streetlight after dark, and I would watch from my bedroom window and sway in time to her music.
She was my Midnight, you see, until some guy rolled up in a BMW one night and said, “It’s time to come home, Paula.” And so she left.
Yet some nights when I’m about to fall asleep, I sense her music in the air; I rush to the window, but in the streetlight’s glow, the sidewalk is bare; she is never there.