The flash illuminated the corner of her bedroom where she kept the stacks of paperback books. Exposed for only a moment, the image of the spines imprinted in her mind: The Glorious Winter, Always and Forever, Dangerously Wicked. She knew most of the stories by memory now. Instead of turning in crisp flicks, the pages clumped together when she caught them with her wet thumb. Their damp smell gave her comfort.
She felt for the empty space beside her; the Rosary beads rattled on her headboard as she strained to hear the thunder that should have followed the lightening.
After the Third Verb writing workshop, I was challenged to write a piece that started with a flash of lightening. I’m going to a wedding this weekend, so am missing the upcoming flash fiction workshop (I know, who could plan that perfect timing?), and I am horribly upset about this. This piece is a homage to my missed opportunity.