PHOTO PROMPT © Shaktiki Sharma
‘The miller’s a good match,’ her father said, words sinking heavy as pebbles in a pond.
The crow-black widows said the same as they perched by the market cross, shawls flapping, flight feathers clipped. So said the vicar from behind the fortress of his collar, his pall of hair icy slick. And the school mistress agreed, lips twisted tight as the paper on a bag of sherbet.
The only soul who didn’t agree was the daughter, but her boots were already turned to the road.
All hope drowned with those words.