PHOTO PROMPT © Lucy Fridkin
When Fliss was small she didn’t think her father had an imagination.
They would lie together on the garden lawn staring up at the clouds, heads so close their hair mixed, her auburn with his ‘salt and pepper’.
As she saw ‘longtailed mouse with a twitchy nose’and ‘doggy asleep on a sofa’, he would call ‘rock’, ‘another rock’, ‘cloud’, making her giggle until her stomach hurt, till she pulled her knees to her chest to make the ache stop.
Only now does she realise, as she flicks through the pages of his account books, how very creative he is.