Special Edition. This week, I’m sharing an original piece. It’s a drabble, a work of fiction that is precisely 100 words in length. As always, comments are welcome!
Camp
We pitched a tent in the field behind
our house to remember the weight
of the stars above our heads. Instant
coffee brewed over an illegal fire tastes best,
you say. It’s cold outside
and this tent is no match for the wind, thin cloth
flapping open and closed like a mouth that can’t
stop yelling.
The coffee goes
as quickly as the conversation. The fire cools,
flames fizzle and with nothing left to burn
you suggest we go back inside.
But there is no warmth there either.
This cold
ground is a constant even when the stars burn out.
Sunday Poem 