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“It’s beautiful,” she said quietly. “My favorite time.”

“You always say that, Dear.”

“Truly! First snow,” a soft sigh. “It’s perfect. All white-covered. Quiet… peaceful.”

A gloved hand wrapped around her waist, pulling her close. “Whatever you say, Dear.”


From bleached whites came vibrant greens crawling, covering. A dirt-covered hand fingered a bud.

“Flowering,” she whispered, leaning closer. A mother about to place a kiss upon a child’s brow. “New life. It’s beautiful. My favorite.”

“Of course it is,” he smiled, helping her stand. A small kiss upon her own brow. “Of course.”


Colors changed. Reds and purples spotted vines. With a pluck, she took a berry to taste.

“Almost time,” she commented. “All grown. So bright and colorful. Harvest, my favorite. It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” he agreed watching her, he lifted another berry gently to her lips.


The reds were joined by yellows and oranges. Cold returned.

Glasses raised. Clink. “A good year,” he declared.

“A beautiful year,” she added. “This is my favorite part of it.”

“You’re my favorite part.”


Written in response to this week’s Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers prompt wherein you write a piece of fiction no more than 175 words in response to a photo prompt. The image is shown above, picture credit to Vanessa Rodriguez.

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