Johnny raised his eyes to catch a glimpse of the clock, the clock which like him has been a participant as well as a witness of numerous changes.
A deep sadness emerged in the heart of Johnny, there it was all broken and old, out of place like him. The life like the clock, winding down.
Now like the irreparable clock, an irreparable life reflects a bygone age for Johnny. The only thing he now wants is peace of mind. An embrace from Dark Angel awaits…
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers prompt. Photo credit: J Hardy Carroll
A strange and familiar feeling had gripped Lyon heart. He encountered it before, on his solus escapades, but never in a clique.
He glanced at Jane. She was trembling. Mark was holding her hand, yet she was shaking. He took her hand, and squeezed it tightly. When Jane glanced back, he nodded.
All three were walking abreast towards the harbour, when Lyon abruptly stopped and asked, “Why are we hear again”? Jane and Mark looked equally bewildered.
Alas, the softening of their brains, which prompted them, became an impediment in finishing their journey. Their suicide pact, now jilted, before the finishing line.
Written for Rachel Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers prompt. Picture credit: Ted Strutz.
The dried eyes, the dark circles, another night, another day, yet the restlessness remains. The day reminding him of the night, the night which like the earlier ones, was marked with her absence.
The absence which was clearly felt. Oh! How much has he lost, since the day she disappeared? How he sulked, how he occasionally became tense, how he cried, how he became delusional.
But she isn’t returning. And although he finds what he terms as ‘alternatives’, using money, none satisfied him, like she did.
Now the sun has risen, the pills have failed, his sleep like before, in absentia.
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit:Dale Rogerson
It’s no wonder, a birdbrain you’re, you’re after all a bird. The unknown may attract you; as you’re still to explore the humble abode in which I reside.
So you come and peck on the window. And yet you don’t know of how I too; strike the same window to escape. If only I had wings like you, for when I once did breached and escaped, I was just caught and brought back.
So you stupid bird you’ll see, one day I will, successfully I might add, scarper. And on that day I will welcome the unknown and will leave this ‘known world’ behind.
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Jean L. Hays.
It’s too crowded for my taste. If only Evelyn was here, time flies when I’m with her. Unlike this place where time stand, or appears to be standing still.
Why bother, I ask. Didn’t Buddha said, “In the end we, and all our creations perish”. Why we need to remember. Is it because we the humans have a tendency to keep records? I mean record keeping is the signature activity of our species.
But all these people; don’t they realise that like the records they create, they soon themselves become records, actually some of them already are in them. It’s true what they say, numbers don’t lie. Who knew that the basis of the individualism of the modern capitalistic society; is in reality collectively based on numbers?
The world after all, was, is and will always remain, a prison.
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Roger Bultot.
As a bullied kid; Billy wanted some kind of control over his life. So he started by stomping and burning ants. The twisted and deformed corpses of ants helped Billy in providing a semblance of control over his life.
His father watched Billy and his growing silence. So he took Billy to the fields where they silently gazed at the empty fields. Slowly plants started emerging and Billy was amazed to see the fields transformed.
Now old Billy works on the same field. Always remembering his Dad words, “It’s easy to take a life, rather than creating it. Although both give you the same control, the former is an easy way out.”
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Connie Gayer.
I apologise for going over the word limit.
The sheer joy of planting something and seeing it grow is what made gardening special to him. But unlike the plants which need water, pruning, and sunlight, he needed money to survive.
Soon those ‘greens of paper’ (dollars) became more important; than greens of his backyard.
He went to his boss house to ask if he could work overtime? On the kitchen table he saw the plant in the bowl. Intrigued he asked whether it was a terrarium? Seeing him intrigued the boss offered him the plant.
He refused as he knew only a heavy purse makes a light heart.
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.