As we kneeled at the river’s edge, father pointed to the ground, “What is this?”
“A leaf?” I said. He shook his head.
He baffled me for years with koans. At a funeral he gestured at the deceased, whispering “Me, or you?” I had nightmares for days.
Following the war, millions fled the revolutionary zeal gripping the country. “Mao tilts a poison cup into the land, wilting leaves blow far away,” father lamented.
Years later I live in the place my ancestors called Gold Mountain. On a stroll with my grandson I pointed to a thicket and asked, “What is this?”
He was genuinely puzzled.
This has been an installment of the Friday Fictioneers Challenge. If you would like to give the challenge a try, start at Rochelle’s Purple Blog and join the fun.
Here’s the concept: A weekly picture is posted, and the writer is challenged to produce one-hundred (more or less) words of some sort of fiction with a complete plot (beginning, middle and end).
Have fun and happy writing!