Every Friday writers from around the world contribute 100 word stories prompted by a photograph supplied by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields to Friday Fictioneers. Everyone is welcome to contribute and we love comments on our stories.
We wait in silence for the bell. Jordan on the floor propped against our mother’s bed so he won’t accidently see her. He closed her eyes; he obviously doesn’t want her looking at him either. He’s flicking the hole in the knee of his trews.
I don’t say, stop it. I’d sound too much like her.
I’m on the stool we put beside her bed when she became feverish. I can’t look away. Her skin is as waxy as a candle. I try to hold my tears so she’ll burn quicker when they light her.
We wait for the rumble of the cart. And the bell.