Here’s another 100-word piece I wrote to a “Friday Fictioneers” prompt photo:

“Your Mama’s a gypsy.  You can’t tie ’em down.” 

“Why’d she take our car and not say goodbye?”

Daddy smiled and then refused to talk about it anymore.

“Just you promise me,”  he said, pointing a finger at me.  “You won’t leave like that.”

I went to college without leaving town.  Married a girl as unlike Mama as possible, bought a house sitting solid on an acre of land.

Two days ago I found the car, far up the mountain from the cemetery where Daddy rests alone.  Over the years Daddy had salvaged every part he could.  Except the truth.