Luna lowered her flute. "Are you alright?" The master was lost in thought. He sighed.
She raised her instrument once more, but hadn't played three notes before he groaned and leaned back against the wall, his dead eyes pointed toward the ceiling. She stopped playing.
"Tell me the color of your dress," he said. Luna looked down and assessed her attire. It was just a plain muslin tunic over a used, grey, tulle skirt she always wore when she played for him. She had added metal chain links to the skirt, which she only wore when she visited his rooms. The sound of the rustling tulle and the clinking metal soothed him.
"The skirt of my dress," she began, "reaches down to cover my feet in bright yellow. Over the yellow base of the skirt -" She thought fast, "I am wearing a long over-dress of royal blue in honor of your royal self. Above the skirt, on top, I am wearing the dark pink silk your wife was partial to, with long fluted sleeves covering my arms."
His wife had died in the fire. It was that same fire that caused him to lose his sight, rushing through the spitting sparks and embers to try to save her.
He couldn't see, so she never dressed brightly for him anymore, but he preferred to think in color. If she could create the illusion for him, what harm was in the little lie?
It's FICTION FRIDAY!
Every Almost every Friday I write a new flash fiction piece. If you have a writing prompt you'd like to see turned into a story, just leave it in a comment. Today's story came from an image prompt given during the writing group I attended on Monday.
That's a sad little story.
ReplyDeleteHe struck me as a sad man.
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