It's Still Life

Flood

Floodwater licks the porch — it tastes a memory. A child’s red balloon bobs along the wall’s wet breath … a fridge drifts past like a coffin; forks whisper from inside the drawers.

A woman wades through the hallway, her nightgown a pale blossom unfurling as she clutches a dripping photo album, its names and dates weeping ink, faces unlearning themselves. Her teeth chatter in cold protest meant for no one.

By sunrise, the church steeple bows, the river tightens around its throat — and the red balloon pops — not a sound, just a knowing.

Then a hush as the house exhales, and the walls fold like a patch of wet paper.

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Written between Osnabrück and the Nord-Ostee Kanal, Germany, for Denise’s Six Sentence Story. This week’s word is Patch.  Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.