This is a friday fictioneers submission for 26th December. I suspect it’s over the 100 words, and it’s also quite an abstract, if genuine, interpretation. Thanks to Bjorn Rudberg for the photo.
Incidentally, be sure to check out my festive ghost story. The full version can be found here…
-“What’s it like out there?” She asks. If he had to find a word to describe her tone, he’d go with plaintive.
-“Cold, love,” he replies, “scary.” His tongue trips over the white lie, but, trapped inside by her condition, it’s kinder that she doesn’t know what she’s missing.
-“I thought I heard singing, Dad.”
-“No, hon, it must’ve just been the wildcats fighting. ”
-“But, I thought…”
He cuts her off, “Trust me, you’re safer where you are.”
He smiles, plumps her pillow, hoping she doesn’t notice the edge to his words. The truth is, he’s heard word of a cure and he doesn’t know what the hell he’s going to do.