Thank you to Rochelle for Friday Fictioneers! This is definitely one where I looked very, very closely at the picture and let my imagination run wild.

PHOTO PROMPT © Marie Gail Stratford


Kid gloves. Irony. Everyone around me dons them.

Instead of being the microscope specimen under their hovering visages, worried eyes, voices decibels shy of brittle, I meditate over the milkweed that has gone to seed. The cottony spindles undulate. Mesmerized, I draw nearer. Bodies writhing, humans, not plant seeds.

The one in center, head bowed: My Nathan. He alone is immobile. The mouths of the others are open, wailing to the sun.

I glance toward the window where my family watches.

How do I tell them that my husband, children, have been reborn? A sharp wind carries them away.


Sascha Darlington



14 thoughts on “Seeds

  1. What an astonishing narrative. The grieving mother and wife seems to receive an assurance of the continuity of the lives of her husband and children, albeit a very ambivalent one with little consolation. Excellent writing, Sascha.

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