This was the Serafina that Lonan knew best—the Serafina after the Porfirios died. Afraid of its own coasts but too poor to move. Dreading the change of seasons. Quietly taking Mistress Leroy’s sleeping herbs and forgetting the names of its dead.
Xan turned and watched him until he misstepped, overturning the driftwood and tripping into the sand. “If that’s what you want,” he said.
A thin lump protruded from beneath a glued sheet over the book’s inside cover. Feeling his nails around the edges, Cyprus peeled the paper away from the leather.
A man at Camalo Fair swore to me that if I came with him on the Ferris wheel he’d cure cancer.
In the spirit of change, minor or major (and shoving yourself over the precipice from "should write" to "am writing"), give these microprompts your boldest shot. Happy writing, everyone!
Umi closed his eyes and imagined in the thick, dreaming aroma of Shiori’s room both of them were in their childhood again. He imagined he didn’t have to worry about who didn’t (or did) want touching him. He imagined someone would wake him, in the morning, and tell him what he should do. He imagined they would tell him how to be happy.