100-Word Fiction: ‘Lanterns’

You remember when it was New Year’s Eve and we all stood in the park and it started to snow and all across the grass people were lighting those paper lanterns that we watched float off into the deep clear night and the brand-new year? And we wondered where they’d travel, these flickering starry specks of warm orange, growing distant by the second, out across the city towers and the cranes illuminated with fairy lights. And the lanterns were lifted with sleepy-eyed dreams as we clasped each other against the cold.

We don’t see lanterns anymore, though dreams float on.

100-Word Fiction: ‘The Way I See It’

Oh but the rains I remember, alternating with the regular insistence of windscreen wipers: downpour, drizzle, downpour, drizzle, downpour, drizzle. They seem so long ago. Now, the way I see it, the world is brighter. Plants bud sooner, the birds always sing. There are children playing in the cul-de-sacs and everyone, at any time, can glimpse the tiniest speck of summer. In February the sun is warm on my neck. If it rained last week I can’t remember. I walk to the shops, meet friends. I have no jacket with a hood, no umbrella. The reservoirs, they warn, are dry.