Tired, she sat on the empty plinth, and rested her aching feet, now swollen too big for her strappy little sandals, on the partial-hand ottoman.

She took her large straw sun hat off, fanning her flaming hair sweat-stuck to the back of her neck and forehead.

Out of the direct sun, crush of people, agonizing mix of sensations, Flora felt she could almost breathe. The miasma of a market day overwhelmed her.

This trip was intended to rejuvenate her, make her feel alive again. Part of the crazy whirl of sights, sounds, smells that made the world real.

Everyone at the institution encouraged it. Except for Brian Lane, another patient. “You’ll be back faster than they pushed you out. I made it through 4 countries in 3 days and I was back.”

Flora was on country number 5 or was it 6? She’d lost track of the days.

For Sunday Photo Fiction 6.11.16

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@ my frilly Freudian slip

 

 

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