|found on google images|
FLASH FICTION PROMPT
His shoulders were stooped with age and his face bore the weathered traces of the paths that life had worn through him. What set him apart from the rest of the monks at Isha's temple was an entirely different thing.
It was his staff. Long and thin, as if it were no more than the single trunk of a young sapling, inlaid with gold and precious jewels, capped at the bottom with a dull silver. The top was pronged, almost as if it were a trident and his eyes--oh his eyes.
His eyes were the deepest, darkest shade of purple on this side of Honeywell Duvash.
The Prophet, they called him and yes, he answered.
(c) Sara Harricharan
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