100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
I am here alone and I would not be. I see rough walls of stone, grey-drab with unfamiliar light. I am a prisoner of duty, a bride-in-waiting for her marriage to a stranger. What if I forget the taste of boudin noir aux pommes, the scent of juniper, a fresh fig’s sweetness? I reach up and trace the narrow window with my finger. I ache for my mother, my dolls, the purring warmth of Felix on my bed.
I see the English servant on the terrace, a velvet cushion held aloft and upon that blood-red plush, ready for the ceremony, my crown.