The Word for Heartache - Thursday's Green #ColorChallenge

To celebrate my first week on Steemit, I thought I’d pause the regular programming on my how-to write posts and join in on today’s #colorchallenge.    

However, I’m a writer… not a photographer. 

So, I chose a photo (that I snapped late last summer with my iPhone) that complements a piece of micro fiction that I wrote. My story (shared below) was originally published in 2012 with the fine folks at Little Fiction.   

Aches  

Emilio had spent more time growing inside her body, those late nights when his heels dug into her side, than he had living inside their fieldstone farmhouse, those late nights when his screams shifted the terracotta shingles. She knew him better than anyone else had. 

Seventeen-day-old Emilio Antonio was buried on a Sunday. The day after, the family left for Canada. His tiny bones were placed in the ground in the Maione cemetery, to the left of the oak. The only marker for all those souls. The rock-hard roots had long since pushed out of the dry ground.  

Twenty-seven years later, Calebrese comes clumsy off her tongue as she tries to recall the word for heartache to the neighbor. They slice the apples, slipping their blades through the soft brown spots, and collecting the bruises in the kitchen sink. Whenever alone, the two women recounted their elsewhere stories. 

“Angoscia,” she finally said. 

Her pinky poked through the soft skin. She looked up from the silver drain and through the window. The branches of the tree curved from the weight of the fruit.  

Thanks for reading!