In response to the Flash Fiction Challenge presented by Jane & Jeren, a short folk tale about left-behind wings.

The heavy-breasted mammatus clouds drifted over suburbia, sagging low in their nurturing way, all grey and worrisome, but the people were so glad the hateful storm had passed that no one noticed the seeds dropping; Dandelion Yellows, Pinkist Clover, Purple-Spike Thistle, cast over the carefully manicured lawns. No one noticed, at least until the next morning when the weeds began to spring forth with all the joy and vigor infused in their happy little petals by the sensuousness of the sky the night before. Squinting in the first glaring light of morning, Mandevilla backed out of her garage and a mask of sour-milk face leapt instinctively from the center of her brunette head. They must go, those invasive weeds! Just one more thing on her Eradicate-This! list for the day. She slammed her sunglasses on her face and machine-gunned the red SUV toward the highway. A giggle slipped from the garage in the corner where windshield washer fluid, weed killer and bleach stood in neatly aligned bottles. Bougainvillea stood still in the ceramic pot along the sidewalk, witness to it all. As the sun rose higher a breeze came too and she willed her dainty petals of melon softness to fall and blow, like summer drifting snow, across the drive and into the grass. Oh, the tales of woe they told to the Dandelion Yellows, who sprang forth in white seeds of indignation, whispering in song to the Pinkist Clover who shared the sad news with the Purple-Spike Thistle. Each joined in the singing with Bougainvillea’s blossoms, propagating seeds, crying out to the mother mammatus, now blown far away, sweet tears shed for a life-time as they swirled and twirled in the breath of the afternoon. The wings on which they had flown the night before left behind to scatter their progeny across those perfected lawns.
© Jilly’s Silly bit o’ fiction.
Nice tale and apparently sad ending for the newcomers.
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Well, perhaps. Have you ever met a dandelion who was not adept at casting seeds? 😉
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The uprising of the forgotten weeds 🙂 Wonderful! I love the machine-gunned SUV. She’s going to have an apoplexy when she gets home! Lovely story, lovely sing-song rhythm to go with the drifting seeds from those deep voluptuous clouds. Thanks for giving the story a go!
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Thanks for the idea. It was a bit of silly play.
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Not silly to me. I love those kind of stories.
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Thanks, Jane. Me, too
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🙂
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Ha! They’ve reached my garden, those seeds, but I’m not as enthusiastic about eradication. A lovely whimsical write, almost made me feel for the dandelions…thank you for sharing, and teaching me about a new cloud name.
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Thanks for reading my bit of whimsey, Sarah. Mammatus comes from the same word as mammary because they look like breasts. Learned from my meteorologist husband, along with much about weather.
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I’m following you on not reading this until I write my version, so I’ll be back soon. I can’t wait, hahal
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This is beautiful, jilly! I just love the tone of it. It was mesmerizing. I too just finished writing my take and will post tomorrow.
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Hooray!!!
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Reblogged this on itsallaboutnothingg and commented:
Another beautiful and whimsical version of wings phenomenon!
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Thank you, Jeren! It was fun to write.
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I love the rhythm of this tale–and I actually like dandelions, so yay for them. 😉
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Thanks! I connect with the weeds of this world… hmmm 🙂
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🙂
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Haha! You are your own thing, Sister Jilly! This is Jabberwocky-worthy. I read it once… laughed. I read it again… strived not to laugh; failed. Awesome!
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Good! Laughter was kinda what I was going for – I laughed, too. 🙂
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No laughs for the writer… so, we both laughed.
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Ah! Frost.
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He knew whereof he spoke.
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