Gemotions

The old trunk creaked open, and Sarah gasped. It wasn’t the smell of mothballs that got to her, it was the picture clutched in her hand. Her great-aunt Eleanor, the devout spinster, was draped across a motorcycle, her skirt hiked up, a cigarette dangling from her lips. A burly man with a leather jacket was grinning into the camera.

Sarah backed away, bumping into the wall. She’d heard countless stories of Eleanor’s piety, her unwavering faith, her rejection of worldly pleasures. This image shattered that image, splintering it into a million pieces. She felt a strange buzzing in her ears and a desperate need to know the truth, even if it destroyed everything she thought she knew. Her voice caught in her throat as she swallowed, trying to compose herself.