Now and then I’d look up and catch Emily watching me, her white dress gleaming, her skin the colour of toffee, and sometimes I would wave to her. Sometimes, if her father wasn’t looking, she would wave back.
In those days the sun seemed angrier than it does now, and the shadows that it printed on the porch were sharp and unforgiving. It was as though it knew what we were planning, Emily and I, and it disapproved.
This is a 100-word flash fiction story, prompted by the picture you can see up there, as part of Friday Fictioneers (yes, I know it’s late).