Fiction Friday From the Depths of Forgotten Photos
Franklin always ate his cooked broccoli and carrots that his mother put beside the fried chicken on his dinner plate. He answered, "Yes, mamma" when she asked him to put away his wooden blocks and corn husk dolls after he was finished playing. After dinner, the two would cuddle on the faded sofa, teal with gold flowers on the cushions, threads poking out of the worn arm rests showing what the inside looked like. His mamma would tell the best stories of magic men coming out of tea pots in a burst of smoke and giving wishes and thieves guarding treasure. After his Mamma went to bed, Franklin would pluck out the gold threads that itched his bare elbows on the arm rests. He would fold them neatly up and place them in his treasure basket along with three silver buttons with anchors, a chicken wish bone, a piece of broken shell, a bit of lace from the hem of a slip, his Mamma's pink broach in the shape of little roses with gold stems, and a black rock with a white line running through the middle. On Sundays, dressed in his best, Franklin would take his basket outside to the back yard and climb under the Magnolia tree with the branches that hung low and kissed the ground. There he had found a teapot and he would discuss with the man in the smoke how to keep his treasure safe.
Soon Coming: One of Two. Pick One of the Two images and I'll write a blip.