Leaving

Against a silken, fog-feathered landscape, depleted by wind and Autumn decay, we flew. It was time. Winter threatened, biting our wings with an arctic chill.

We rose, fluttered, and turned south almost as one.

Below, a figure slowly walked the worn cemetery path. It seemed he must also say goodbye.

Thank you for reading my 50-word story. Comments are welcome!

I wrote this story when I used to run a weekly micro-fiction contest. The prompt was “goodbye.”

Although I set out to write a story that wasn’t sad, I knew it would be a bit difficult, with goodbye as the theme. I’m not sure whether I succeeded.

When writing fiction, I find that my best intentions are often thwarted when the story takes on a life of its own. It is simultaneously tantalizing to think that I am merely a steward for words that demand to be written, and in a way eerie — like that feeling when you place your fingertips on a Ouija board and it pulls away from you, shattering any tenuous sense of control you previously had.

If you have a similar experience, I would love to hear about it!