ROCHELLE WISOFF-FIELDS-ADDICTED TO PURPLE HOSTS THE FLASH FICTION
I stretched out, very slowly. No-one would even see my progress tonight because there was no wind, no movement against which to judge my progress.
Slowly, easy does it, edging ever closer. Dried grasses from a whole day of sun felt their stems soften and swell as I rose silently, millimetre by millimetre.
I could now sense the gain and would very soon reach the bases of the old trees, the trees which after dark whispered to me and gave me special gifts for me to take back along the river, to where I would retreat in a few hours.