Mount Saint Helens erupted the day she was born. A cousin in Portland sent a glass bottle of volcanic ash as a christening present. She kept it forty years, nestled in her underwear drawer.
She wondered about those who didn’t leave. Did they grow accustomed to the rumble and tremble of earth, the grey snowfall of ash, the egg-stink of sulfur?
What warnings ignored then became the commonplace?
“No one else will love you.”
“Why do you make me so angry?”
She left him a cinder trail. A house of coals as bright as lava — fire cleanses everything.
- Inspired by the photo above and prompted by http://www.phantomsway.com/2019/09/27/fiction-friday-100-word-challenge-a-volcano-maybe-2/
Here are some more of my 100 Word Stories-