I’ve gone but not far, darlings. I’m going to do my best to participate properly over the next couple of days, and that means reading your stories (this is how it’s supposed to work, and why I’ve been absent — I didn’t feel that I had the time to adequately participate.)
Today’s story is inspired by a photo by Santoshwriter and weighs in at exactically 100 words.
Enjoy, and read the other stories, or consider entering one of your own by clicking the little blue frog at the bottom.
Her daughter danced through the woods ahead of her, careless and joyful. She’d danced before she could walk, and the tribe named her Ayita, meaning first to dance.
Ayita’s father was a wicked man, with strange lusts. Immookalee should have seen it, but it had been too late for her now disgraced older daughter.
She gathered healing herbs with Ayita, passing down her craft.
“What about these, mama?” the girl asked, pointing to a low growing plant.
“Never these, daughter,” Immookalee warned. “Those are what I fed your father.”