(100-word flash fiction)

He steps into the square, barred patch of sunlight, feeling its tremulous warmth upon his face.

He can hear spring winds sweep away the remnants of autumn like he has had for 20 years. He reaches up and plucks the crinkled leaf stuck at the bars.

It reminds him of the parchment on which he had written his inflammatory letter denouncing the Royal family’s debauchery. Fool! He should’ve known it would land him in this remote prison.

And now, he doesn’t know the King is long dead. There is democracy in the land.

And, he has been completely, totally forgotten.


After a gap of a couple of weeks, I return to Rochelle’s literary bar for my weekly fix of flash fiction. This week’s photo prompt is –