Sally had curls. They were grey like her face and bounced with air when she played hopscotch in the driveway. She lived out where the traffic was sparse and wildflowers grew from the cracks in the sidewalk.
Sally was also dead, but she couldn’t remember how. She shared her home with many families; some of them changed the curtains in the kitchen, and some of them repainted the porch.
Sally was seven—she was always seven, but that was okay, because Sally was dead, a grey ghost amidst the flowery tapestry of her old home, and Sally felt forever fine.
A. R. Frederiksen is a recurring guest blogger here at BnV, and her own writing blog can be found here, where she dabbles in flashfiction/poetry and reflects over the, much elusive, ABCs of writing.
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