Trace your finger around the rim and wait for the crack to touch your skin. Feel the jagged edge , the uneven break in the smooth finish and wince. Continue reading “The Cracked Cup”
Derek nudged Sally and she looked up to see the fancy poster.
“It’s our only chance. Forget the kids. Just chuck everything into the air and let’s go. Nobody’ll know.”
Sally gazed at the dream cruise pasted on the wall above their heads, outside an inconspicuous store.
Smiling, she nodded, ‘I’ll book the tickets tonight.’
Grinning, Derek turned, looked down the railway platform and his watch. Looking back at Sally, he asked, ‘Hon, where are we?’ Sally took his wrinkled hand in hers and whispered, ‘We’re here to welcome Sean home.’
The vacant look in his eyes wrung her heart.
Word count: 100
Written for the Rochelle Weisoff Fields’ Friday Fictioneers-
Click here to read the prompt and
here to read the other entries in the link-up.
It’s never enough.
Everything lies within my grasp- acclaim, fame, name. But I am not satisifed. I know there is more to this life- more than just social updates, wines over dinner, clucks of sympathy and mysterious calamities.
And I see no end to it- this divisiveness created by being online, when something meant to connect always leaves us feeling inadequate.
Pam’s new hair colour, the smell of fresh polish on Amy’s fake nails, Hope’s dazzling new Gucci bag-I can’t take it anymore.
What do I have to flaunt in this cultural wasteland?
My words aren’t enough to capture the ache in my soul or to fashion the pain in my heart into a fabulous piece of art. A poet. Am I even that? Nothing published. Not anywhere. Nobody reads what I say.
Sitting here, by the garden of sorrows, I watch as the flowers bloom, some more in tune with Nature than others. Many of them struggle to survive the onslaught of rain, hail and sleet. A few give up, quietly, without a struggle.
For an infinite second that stretches into forever, I contemplate it too.Giving up. Today, this instant, I could choose to end it all. No family to mourn me, no friends to grieve me and no love to visit my grave, year after year. Like the flowers that turn to dust and blend with the call of the earth’s bosom, my body will find a willing lake that welcomes me with open arms.
With it, I know that Life can end and so will this pain. Will I though?
Nadia paused in her writing to look out the window of her dingy, one-bedroom home and sighed at the irony. The least she could have was a real field with real flowers. The clock chimed, reminding her of her tryst with the publisher, so she hunched her shoulders down into the writer’s stance and continued to pour her soul onto paper.