CG Express

I pick up the grey stone.
The hail pelts us still.
They began pea sized, but they grow.
“Come with me.”
I grab the young woman’s hand.
To my house in the hill,
We go.
Slipping and sliding on the ice,
Till I push my door open,
And my house is filled,
With people.
And the cat.
The ice hits the door,
But we’re safe,
Behind dirt walls.
Her name is Clover.
“They bloomed the day of her birth.”
But they call her Chloe.
Mama is Rose.
They were not in bloom.
Her mother’s pain,
Like the stab of thorns.

This is a continuing story in 100 word increments. Read from the beginning by choosing StormWeaver category in the side bar of page.