Cora
May 6, 2022
Hand in hand, they entered the shadowy copse of pines. Russet needles underfoot kept their secrets as they walked, lured by the ancient yew.
“My name!” the girl called, spotting “C-O-R” on its wrinkly trunk.
Today they would carve the “A.”
Her mother winced as she split the tree’s skin, finishing the name of the child she bore — an infant daughter who would not cry, who never roused to meet her.
“Cora,” she whispered. The little girl blinked, then vanished.
She’d find her again tomorrow, her beloved apparition, and show her the yew’s fresh scar.
(qualifying story for round 1, 100-word Flash Fiction NYC Midnight 2022)
