Flash Fiction / writer / Writing

It was a Saturday by L.A. Murphy

She sat on the swing and gently kicked her legs back and forth, back and forth. She was thirteen and it was a Saturday when she had gone into her father’s room and smelled the perfume that wasn’t her mothers and the whole time she had wondered who this new scent belonged to and why its existence hurt her so much. It was Sunday, when she had turned fourteen, that she confronted him and he wept because he wanted so much to be happy but he knew his happiness was forfeit for hers and it pained him to have had his life altered with no control. And it is today that she sits on the swing rocking back and forth, considering the fate of the father and the mother, two people assigned to roles they so desperately wanted to escape.



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