It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a mother in possession of a young child must be in want of a crystal ball.
She wasn’t afraid of anything: Smoldering fire; hail storms of passion; blood-sucking leeches, reeking of desire. Bring it on. Her hobnailed boots were made for stomping, and she could dance, by god. She could move. She could run long and fast and still have breath enough to laugh in the face of all that friction. Drive a truck with her old life across country toward her future? Piece of cake.
She, and the man she knew would never try to change her, made a new life in a place where people lived on fried dough and clams. A baby arrived one winter morning weighing less than the four-layer fudge cake she was planning for her birthday later; a clear-eyed boy careening headlong into the world so furiously that he took her breath away.
But time is a forward moving thing that cares for no one. It will not pause for one second, no matter how nicely you ask. She learned this on a ferris wheel as her child laughed between her husband and herself. The wheel lurched forward and backward, filling and emptying, still moving ever upward, and then slowly around and down, where she asked to be let out. She walked away and watched as the wheel rolled upwards carrying her heart.
She pictured the wheel collapsing, sending the cars flying through the air, saw her husband and her child (who still believed she could make monsters disappear) hurtling downward while she had chosen to save herself. She could do nothing to stop the inevitable. Hobnail boots were useless.
She knew that all she had was now.
Written for the DP Weekly Writing Challenge: Flash Fiction. 296 painstakingly sculpted words. The limit was 300. As is usually the case, I chose the photograph first and let it tell me the story. Apologies to Jane Austin for the bastardized version of her opening sentence in Pride and Prejudice.