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…


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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