Home was a rugged meadow. Buttercups grew in small patches in the closet, behind the couch, in the crawlspace under the porch. I darted past the darkness of the den, avoided foxes breathing smoke and licking blood. Sun scorched the grass brown as tempers blazed. Rain poured down with the thundering of doors thrown open, fists against flesh, flesh against walls. I counted petals of clover in the corner of my bedroom, wishing to float away on a dandelion seed, taste the fresh horizon on the tip of my nose. Then you saved me. Leaping over thistles and dodging bumblebees, we left behind the remains of my youth. At our new home, I buried time in the backyard. I shovelled dirt and pulled weeds until I found the right spot, where we could witness the blooms from our kitchen window.
Melanie Maggard is a flash and poetic prose writer who loves dribbles and drabbles. She has published in Cotton Xenomorph, The Dribble Drabble Review, X-R-A-Y Magazine, Five Minute Lit, and others. She can be found online at www.melaniemaggard.com and @WriterMMaggard