The tire swing is gone.

The knotted rope as well.

We haven’t been for a picnic there since that day.

No more Frisbee. No more croquet. No more nights with the telescope just hoping to see the rings of Saturn.

David was eleven. I was only seven.

But I still remember.

I still visit.

I have to.

It is the only place that I can still hear his voice.

I can still see David in the uppermost branches … Shouting down to us that he was Superman.

But he wasn’t.

I think that I believed that he was Superman, too.

Written for Sunday Photo Fictioneers. Requirements: Using the photo prompt, create a flash fiction story of 200 words. (This one was only 100.)


17 thoughts on “THE TIRE SWING IS GONE

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