Jessie shifted all of her weight onto her left leg. She wildly flapped the fan in front of her face, watched the water drip from the sculpted swan’s icy beak and disappear in the turf below. The officer guarding the exhibit was staring at her. He knew what she was thinking.

I just want to lie in front of it, she pleaded with her eyes, have the water drizzle down and saturate my dry tongue, moisten my cracked lips. I won’t break off its head and suck its crown. I won’t lick its frozen feathers. I won’t rip off my clothes and hump its frigid body like that man from the shelter did to Venus.

“Move along, miss.” His lips barely moved. Could he even pull them apart, or was the parched skin adhesive like the back ends of tape.

She rushed from the museum unquenched, the ice sculptures serving as a hopeless temptation. She’d rather burn her feet on the molten asphalt, melt under the ever-approaching sun.

word count: 168


Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers is a weekly challenge where you write a story in 100-150 words (give or take 25 words) using the provided photo prompt as inspiration.

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12 thoughts on “Scorched

    1. Thanks! My dad who’s a songwriter had a line in one of his songs that said, “the rich get richer, and the poor stay poor till they die…” It’s sad that even today, that statement is true.

      Liked by 1 person

    1. There’s this episode of the Twilight Zone called “The Midnight Sun,” and in it, the earth suddenly changes it’s orbit, moving closer to the sun, so I tried to describe the result of that here.

      Liked by 1 person

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