Autumnal severance
season’s flashing tonality
present past present future
the shin hurt of childhood quarrel
aging fruit and jarring tumbler
last year’s fashion muffler, tomorrow’s cinder
moth-eaten “do my bones look big in this?” sweater
witch’s brew of prescription medicines
growing old is time’s obscurer
a flash of autumnal red
like twinkling stars
fade and fall
For Sammi's Day 6 ("witches brew") and Day 7 ("Do my bones look big in this?")
Genre: Fiction
Word Count: 100
Fear
I’ve heard it said that a woman should never be afraid of her own life. Yet I am. Every day the crowd multiplies. I grow old. The room grows smaller. Am I to be buried alive? Not with grave dirt, but with ghosts. The more confined I, the more rampant they. What diabolical art is this, that the dead suck life out of those they abhor? My nights are theirs to engorge upon in hopeless pain, my days spit out remnants of their celebration. For as vines strangle and overgrown briars encroach, my ghosts encircle me. And I am afraid.
Come along and join in with Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers and Eugi’s Weekly Prompt. Eugi asks us to use any variation on the word prompt (“celebration”).
Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt (above, © Alicia Jamtaas) and limit our words to 100 or less. Click on the frog to read more stories and participate. 
This Jolly Beggar 