The little girl accidentally wandered on the old rail-track. Now mostly an overgrown pathway. She had heard the road was forbidden. Talked about in hushed tones. Curiosity got better of her and she walked on. Alone. Ignoring the whimpering dog.
The trees, lush and green. The birdcalls loud. The footfalls crisp. The sun overhead, strong.
Derelict caravan. Angelic gypsy. Silk on her skin, flowers in her hair and song on her lips.
Yvette!
Wasn't she a myth? A folklore?
Perhaps.
The little girl was found on rail-tracks. Enamoured by the phantasma. Talking to herself. And singing the song of Yvette.
Courtesy : Friday Fictioneers
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Since every thought is a seed, I am looking forward to a delicious harvest.