Her silk dress fell to the floor

For all the money he’d throw at her, she felt herself his possession and hated it. Finally, she’d had enough.

“I’m leaving you,” she said, as her silk dress fell to the floor, followed by her jewelry and lingerie. “You can keep everything.”

Naked, she turned provocatively towards the front door, as he stood there flummoxed.

Outside, awaited a small, orange car.


This piece of flash fiction was written in response to:

43 thoughts on “Her silk dress fell to the floor”

  1. Way provocative, I say, David. Strong images, relatable story ๐Ÿ™‚
    I wonder what came first: the “small, orange car” image perceived by my mind’s eye from the words in the poem, or the small, orange car that my literal eye perceives from the photo (cool car)..
    You know, I am inspired by ideas, concepts, images expressed verbally and visually (“picture poetry”), where the two languages together communicate an idea in the mind’s metaphorical eye, above the sensations that the literal organ perceives from the either the picture or the poem.
    In my mind, Your poem provokes an image of She reclaiming her own (naked, vulnerable, priceless) Self from material He who objectifies her with the shallow silk and jeweled trappings of new money, causing her to “hate” herself. And, because the words make the orange car small, I see that idea take action in the driver’s seat of her own, personal, sunshine-hued self-determination.
    That the photo puts her in the passenger seat Cindarella’s coach.
    Any way I look at it, provokes inspiration to say something in eight words or less. ๐Ÿ™‚

    small, orange
    pumpkin past midnight
    riddle lune

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