History, like love, is mysterious. So much of it is about what you put into it yourself. We make up pasts, memories get fuzzy and out of alignment with time. Even pictures tell only a half-truth that can so easily be mislaid with the loss of human connection. And yet we still create stories, fill in histories, fall in love.
Send in your love stories, your histories, your memories:
[email protected].
—Lyle Rosdahl
To My Love by Alexandra Booth
It was like an ever pulling magnet, luring her to the window each day. Lydia walked home from school, passing by the small jewelry shop, cozily tucked between a butcher shop and an antique furniture store. The bronze pendent, with a long, worn out chain and cross hatched pattern never ceased to entice her. It would seduce her so evidently that her nose would push up against the glass, and the moisture from her breath would cloud her view, sticking to the transparent wall of the store front. The manager would smile in her direction, nodding his head and chuckling at the appearance of the stout child in her plaid jumper, leaning her palms against the window in attempts to get as close to the necklace as she could. He brought her inside once, gently separating the two doors of the locket, showing her the picture of a velvet groom and a pale, lacy bride, both with scornful looks on their faces.
“Who are they?” She asked him, her voice soft and inquisitive. Lydia’s curious eyes wandered over the delicate piece, discovering the engraving: to my love. He shrugged, carefully closed the pendant, and placed it back on its shelf in the display.
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Lyle Rosdahl, a writer living in San Antonio, edits the flash fiction blog & best of in print for the Current. He created, facilitates and participates in Postcard Fiction Collaborative, a monthly flash fiction response to a photo. You can see more of his work, including photos, paintings and writing, at lylerosdahl.com.
Send your flash to [email protected].
