Arse over tea-kettle, and over I went. Legs swept from under me, roller skating mid-air like Wyle E. Coyote caught off a cliff, then down with a wallop.
“It’s going swimmingly,” she said while catching the lifejacket and wrangling two teens.
My fingers trace the ridges on the back of her hand, puckering the skin. The silken thread of her life pulled too tightly.
“Lack of turgidity. A sign of dehydration,” my doctor-cousin informs me brusquely. But I know better. The Fates await her with sharpened scissors and a single eye.
I didn’t post in this week’s YeahWrite Microprose #312 grid, but I love flash/microprose and wanted to play along with the other YeahWriters. The single word prompt was hand. This piece, about my maternal grandmother, is nonfiction.