PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
On Christmas Eve morning, Richard heard the iron gates of Ionia Prison slam shut behind him. He walked two miles to the bus depot, then rubbed life back into his now-numb hands before buying a ticket to Montague.
Richard stopped for a cuppajoe, then went to the cemetery, where he visited his folks. He hopped a local bus to White Lake and walked to the gazebo.
Snow dusted the area. He sat down. Without looking, Richard’s hand went to their carved initials on the wall. Noticing crystals forming on the water, he wondered if he’d be able to find her…
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is the steady host of Friday Fictioneers.