Linked to d’Verse Poets open link night
I haven’t written much prose lately and thought I’m ease myself back gently with the help of Al’s fabulous ‘Sunday Photo Fiction’. Around 200 words of fiction based as loosely as you like around the weekly photo prompt. Follow the link to give it a go.
“A penny for your thoughts” he’d say. And I’d see that questioning look in his eyes, the slight rise of his brow that pulled one eye up higher than the other and he’d smile. I remember that smile.
I remember other things too, his smell, his hair, the coolness of his skin. But it was his smile that I remember the most.
He’d sit and wait for me to answer. He knew I would, I always did. I might play with my hands or look over to the window, maybe even get up and walk over to it, as if the moonlit view outside could somehow answer for me. But I’d always sit back down, look at him and speak.
“I don’t know if I can do it” My grandfather looked at me and smiled. Always that smile.
“It’s like riding a bike” he said,
“You never forget”
I twisted my hands in my lap and nodded.
He stood up, walked over and put his hand on my shoulder.
“I taught you well, my little one, it’s time”
Later that night my teeth sank into the Inspectors throat. I drank my fill, till his body went limp, my ravenous tongue tracing greedily across my fangs.
My grandfather smiled!
Wednesday again and time for ‘Friday Fictioneers’. A 100 words of fiction based on the weekly changing photo prompt. Jump in and have a go, but beware you’ll soon be addicted.
She rubbed the ticket between her fingers. The ink had faded, but the date, time and destination still lingered on her skin, like a tattoo seared beneath the surface. A tapered link to what could have been. What should have been.
Every year, she asked herself, “Why”?
Why she’d hid behind the clock tower.
Why she’d let him board the bus.
Why she’d watched it pull away.
Time hadn’t brought her any answers.
As her husband and daughters rounded the corner, it wasn’t so much regret, but acceptance, that put the ticket back into her pocket.
Passion fades. What’s so wrong with ordinary?