The Watcher

Another Wednesday, another Friday Fictioneers. A weekly addiction that draws in the crowds, over a hundred every week dipping their toes in Rochelle Wisoff-Fields party of the creatively insane. A 100 word piece of flash based around the ever imaginative photo prompts. Come and join in, go on… you know you want to…

claire-fuller-3

He saw her across the street, head down; chewing on the inside of her cheek as if focusing on the distraction. Her hair was shorter now, the sheen more muted. He saw her hands fist just a little tighter as she passed the park entrance.

If he’d been a man, he could have helped. A real man would have been there to protect her, to fight back when they attacked. A real man would have thrown himself into the baying crowd, just to see her safe.

But he wasn’t a man. He was nothing. Just a cold granite shell with a pigeon shit coating.

15 thoughts on “The Watcher

  1. This is lovely. So much wanting to care and protect, and not being able to. Kudos
    (The line “Just a cold granite shell with a pigeon shit coating” made me think of women-friends at a bar discussing a particularly bad date.)

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