This week’s Friday Fictioneers was water dripping from a rock. I think growing up in the American Southwest definitely played into how I interpreted the picture. As always, comments and criticisms are welcome. Tell me what I did well…and tell me when I missed the mark. And thank you! The picture and story are below.
The Hidden Song
“I am the voice in the desert.
“I am the song of the evening.”
She uncorked the gourd, set it under the rock.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Drop by drop. She sat back and watched the dry rivers like veins filling the hollows with shadow and the last light washing the dunes in penciled gold. And then the shadows gathered, pooled, rose; the light faded and the first braid of water coiled down the side of the gourd.
She plugged it with rawhide, rose to her feet.
“I am the smoky dawn
“I am the morning star.”