A week’s vacation has afforded me more writing time than usual. Even though it’s only Thursday I deem my Friday Fictioneers story ready for viewing. 98 words if you’re counting.
Savage heat devoured the crops. My hopes for new shoes, satin and lace shriveled with the corn and beans in Daddy’s field.
Mama inspected brittle vines along the fence. “No jelly makin’ this year, Della-Mae.”
Under the feral sun, on withered ground, she smoothed spotless bed-sheets. Then she strewed them with tiny grapes.
In September I pledged my troth in Mama’s yellowed gown. Her slippers were half again too small so I walked the aisle barefoot.
Thirty-nine years later, as we did on our wedding day, Rueben and I celebrate our devotion with grapevine bouquets and raisin wine.