by Brianna G. Harte
The truth gnawed at me. Perhaps the snakes could feel my agitation as I tried to remember the first time I entered into the underground room. Closing my eyes, I strained to imagine the last time my eyes lay upon the faces of a mother and father. All of it was a blur, as though someone smudged a painting beyond recognition. If only I had the paint, I could restore the portrait. A problem clear as a summer sky stared at me in the face. Where were the memories?
Again, I attempted to search my mind for anything beyond the earthen room. What I uncovered was not my parents. Instead, a golden design with a circle of carefully carved leaves and an unfamiliar symbol emerged. My heart sensed a weak connection to it, despite it just being an image.
Did you remember something? A few snakes still waiting in a circle around the bed asked. You seem. . . pensive.
“Maybe. But I don’t know what it means.”
My eyes drifted to the vines and I gently tugged on a plump fruit. As it came freely, I felt its skin, hoping to find other clues. None came to mind. At least, not yet.
Copyright © 2017 Brianna G. Harte. All rights reserved.