Excerpt
Armchair Traveler
A Flash Fiction Tale
© 2007, Amber Lea Starfire
The first time Clara walked into one of her paintings, she was fifteen. She'd been working on an idyllic (and rather stereotypical) meadow scene, filled with the greens, yellows, purples, and pinks of spring. As she painted, an intense longing to run through such a field, to roll in the grass, to pick a bouquet of flowers and fill her nostrils with its heady scent filled her with such sudden, burning grief, she gasped. Her hand flew to her chest, and she dropped her brush. Trembling, she was startled when she found herself flat on her back, looking at a cerulean sky. Occasional, delicate cirrus clouds interrupted its untroubled expanse. Around her, a short wall of foot-high grass obstructed her view. She sat up to see where she was.
The meadow she had painted was imperfect, coarse and lifeless, but this meadow, otherwise exactly like hers, was perfect, unrestrained, and alive. Insects buzzed among the wildflowers while butterflies moved in trembling joy from plant to plant. The air was filled with the fragrance of flowers, new rain, and clean air. A warm breeze brushed her cheeks and lifted her hair from her neck. In wonder, Clara stood up, took a tentative step and then, laughing, began to run. She ran and danced, feet tangling with the grass, until her heart pounded in her chest and she drew air in gulps.
That first time was seven years ago. ...
Honorable Mention in the Writers Weekly 24-hour Short Story Contest, 2007