I have a reoccurring dream of flying. I glide above a lifeless landscape—sunrise above a destitute city. Morning traffic gridlocked, the cars haphazardly abandoned and silence only pierced by a blaring horn. Coffee cups on a bench. A lone glove on the ground. Two dogs sniffing an oily sack turning on each other with a vengeance in anticipation of a morsel. A campus lawn. A rolling tumbleweed of masks propelled by wind and laptops left open on scattered blankets. I hover over a glass-topped building spying a face—illuminated—as fingers fly over a keyboard searching for an answer.
By Lisa H. Owens
Just 100 Words
100 Word Stories - January 2021 Photo Prompt
Keep it simple, Stupid!
Copyright © 2023, Lisa H. Owens and Lisahowens.com
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site's author/owner is strictly prohibited.
Website Built by I Am Mad Art and Autumn Year Round.