On days like today, I think of Zyanya A young girl I once knew in Chiapas. Dark hair, dark eyes.
We fell in love that afternoon in the plaza de la ciudad. On the steps of a whitewashed Catedral.
We spent the night at an old hotel in Ocosingo. Made a lot of noise. In the morning she kissed me, pulled her dress back on, over her head, smoothed the soft cotton. Then turned her face to the sun, and wandered away disappearing into the east.
She was not bad looking Curly red hair Long legs Dressed to the nines Perky breasts, with the tops peeking out above the top of her blouse
She perched on the stool that was usually mine at the end of the bar body language warning anyone and everyone to “Stay Away” Even Rosy, the barmaid, was maintaining a safe distance But… That was my stool –
“Excuse me, Miss…” She glared at me took a long drag from the long cigarette she had just lit “That’s my seat” “Fuck off, I don’t see your name on it.” The ashtray was full, mounded with butts Her fingers were yellow, she wore a halo of grey smoke
“You don’t know that,” I stood taller, straighter, more assertively “You don’t even know my name” “I don’t want to know your name, cowboy” “But, I want to know yours.”
She squinted her eyes against the smoke She looked at the glass of brown liquor sitting in front of her “Evelyn,” she whispered “What?” “Evelyn, Evelyn, My name is EVELYN, Goddamnit”
I glanced around Rosy was shaking her head “Bullshit” She flipped me off “You’re no more an Evelyn than I am a cowboy”
I used the prompts- ‘yellow fingered’ and ‘that’s not her real name’
I shiver by the back window, listening to some nameless chanteuse croon and confess from the confines of the FM dial.
Warming my hands on a cup of tea, I watch the last two leafs in the tree.
They dance in the moonlight. Embracing, spinning, reaching – enjoying one another.
Caressing like lovers until one falls away; surrendering to the pressure of the wind and the weight of the clinging raindrops.
The fallen leaf touches down. I pore over archaic words and phrases, planning a poem.
The prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that goes in search of trees. It can be one particular tree, a grove, woods, or forest. What makes the tree worth seeking? Go where the prompt leads!