I soak up the tears so your pillow won’t get wet. Every night you say you won’t fall asleep; you always do. Because I’m here to restore some of the comfort the muffled voices drifting up from downstairs have taken from you.
I don’t understand the words. I don’t need to. I know they make you scared and my job is to make you feel safe and secure. The louder they shout, the more you need me.
You rescued me when they wanted to throw me out. I may look old and threadbare, but you know what I’m capable of.
She recognises neither the place nor the time. The machine’s display, after emitting a blinding light, has gone black; she hopes this is where she meant to go.
There’s a knock. She unlatches the window and finds herself surrounded by crude petroleum-fuelled vehicles. Rightish time, it seems. But these people speak a language that doesn’t sound like any of the hundreds she’s learnt. She makes what she believes to be the universally understood sign for ‘I don’t understand’; they shrug.
Before she can stop them from destroying the planet, she’ll have to figure out a way to communicate with them.
He doesn’t know who he is anymore. He used to be somebody – does that makes him a nobody now?
What gives you the right to behave like this?
Easy: money. Having it is all that matters; money means carte blanche.
Shouldn’t you treat others the way you’d want to be treated?
Everyone used to treat him like royalty; he rewarded it, yet none of his crowd stuck around after he’d lost everything. They follow the money; they ignore him if he’s lucky, call him names if he isn’t.
Who do they think they are?
The lovely Nortina has just started Moral Mondays, a new weekly flash-fiction challenge. Yay, more writing prompts! Click on the picture on the left to find this week’s prompt and join in.
My story this week is more wishful thinking than fable. A girl can dream, right?
I love painting, but I’m rubbish at it. I don’t let it stop me. Once I get in the zone, I’m getting better. So I’m not best pleased when the doorbell rings and it’s the postie with a letter addressed to occupant that needs signing for. I mean, the cheek.
I throw it straight in the bin.
Next day, same thing.
‘Does everybody get these?’
I dangle it over the bin. I’ve already been interrupted, though, I might as well take a break. I make a cuppa, open the letter and wonder if I’ll regret it.