A Commodity of Hours
A microfiction piece.
Your liberation looked like lazy X's in gesso—glossy wide brushstrokes, and no clocks on the walls. Mixing your colors right there on the canvas. Leaving the layers to dry without a fan.
Standing at the kitchen sink, you’d rinse the sunset hues off your filberts and watch the lime-chested kingbirds eat from the feeder I hung on the backyard oak, until the rivers to the drain ran clear.
I wondered if we might paint together, when we were both free.
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Compelling and original writing
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More stories from Morgana Miller and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Pen Name
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. The other man appeared in the mirror just as he did in the photograph on the back flap of his debut novel's dust jacket—hair mussed, fingers loosely steepled, mouth quirked at one corner. Only his eyes deviated from the photograph's bearing. Round, exposed irises darted to-and-fro, animated and incongruent with the frozen whimsy of the rest of him. The effect was cartoonish.
By Morgana Millerabout a year ago in Fiction
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This is not who I thought I would be. Before my family was captured and forced into slavery, I had aspirations of becoming a wealthy business owner or possibly a scholar and philosopher. Becoming a warrior was the furthest thing from my mind. Unfortunately, our Roman conquerors had other plans.
By Mark Gagnonabout 23 hours ago in Fiction
Comments (5)
Gorgeously nuanced. This suggests so much more than it states. I love it!
Another strong piece from the Miller! Great job, Morgana! Love the thought and consideration you put into each word in your pieces!
How long must we wait to be allowed to paint together? Is there to be no release from your prison, whether of mania or of walls? Are there others who keep us apart or is it simply that you will not let me in?
This was a great read Morgana. It felt very poetic with your imagery and vocabulary choices! Nicely done and well written!
Great job 😉