(100-word flash fiction)
He couldn’t get the image out of his mind. For months.
It kept dragging him back, by his collar, to his childhood. Bounced, bloodied and bruised, between foster homes, like a battered ball. An apt analogy, considering the kicks he had endured.
There was only a single, faded photo of his from back then. His last girl friend had mused about it, “Even though you had your hands in your pockets, it looks as though you were crying desperately for help.”
That’s exactly what it looked like – the white, bleached, skeletal hand sticking out of the sand.
Crying for help!
Darned life, keeps getting in the way of my writing. But I decided to court the Muse this week and not let her go until she delivered 🙂 Lovely to be back among the fabulous Friday Fictioneers, shephered by the fabulouser Rochelle 😀
Photo prompt –