Here’s this week’s flash fiction. It’s definitely out of the mainstream. I will welcome your feedback.
Rolling toward her feet
By Laura McHale Holland
She is vertical on the veranda; he is horizontal in the grass. She weaves her love for him in blues and greens and purples that he cannot see. He sands his love for her on boards of oak and pine that give her splinters. Songs of love catch in the wind and fly like lost kites far from his grasp while poems turn to quicksand on her dresser. They have schedules, cable bills, best friends from far away. They have children unborn, waiting in their rosebush hedge, in the woodpile, in their gravy boat gathering dust in the corner. His skin is raw from hauling cinderblock anger night and day; her fingers are burned by fear boiling in her oatmeal. She is on the veranda, leaning forward. He is in the grass, rolling toward her feet.