Word Count: 100
THE ASH HEAP
On the ash heap lay a bottle, an empty cigarette pack, a broken doll.
“Stop,” she’d said. “Stop or I’ll leave.”
“You won’t.” He laughed. “You’re just a baby, still playing with dolls. Out there, you’ll be alone. You leave, you die.”
She’d come to him, her father’s choice, not hers, the doll her only token of the past.
“I’ll leave.” She packed her clothes and walked away, eyes on the future, never looking back.
The doll remained.
He watched. When she was out of sight, he threw her childhood on the ash heap along with his.
I’m posting late for last week’s Friday Fictioneers, so my link doesn’t appear on their page. But you can find links to their short-short stories by clicking on the Frog.