The Picnic

H

e sat at his table and waited, plastic gingham tablecloth whipping at the corners. He had come to believe that if it weren’t for sweet-voiced young women in white and yellow summer dresses, old men would perish long before their days were truly done.

      They came from behind a stand of rustling trees carrying platters piled high with fried chicken, corn on the cob, and potato salad. A fragrant hand placed a paper plate in front of him, another, plastic utensils. The soft hair briefly touching his cheek before it was whisked away to tend to others.

A moment passed, the rain began to fall heavily on their banquet. Everyone ran to the shelter of the trees or huddled on the stage of a white gazebo. He sat still.

Father! They all cried to him, come, get out of the rain! You’ll catch your death!

If not, he thought, death will surely catch me. He watched the punch in the pitcher turn from ruby red to pink. He stood and walked deliberately toward the trees. The pretty girls waving to him.

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Explore posts in the same categories: Thoughts & Musings

One Comment on “The Picnic”

  1. ThomG Says:

    IF you don’t stop being so good at flash fiction, I’m jsut going to have to pick upa pen ad start doodling cartoons to get backatcha.


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