CRYPT

My lovely boyfriend sent me a link to an American writing competition where you had to write a micro-story of no more than 100 words after being shown a chosen picture. Here is the picture they chose and the words that I wrote. Enjoy.

Endless names and endless dates, they don’t mean anything now. Curling petals and wilting stems, once green and fresh now represent what they mourn. Still. Cold. Dead. Can she hear talking? Impossible, she’s the last one left now. With her echoing steps, she can almost imagine somebody walking with her. Anybody will do. The smell of them lingers in her nose, the warmth of them, a memory. Running her fingers along the marble doors, the hundreds of them, the thousands of them. She can hardly believe, she put them there.