After the night’s rain, the morning air was crisp and clean and full of promise. The man guided his minivan up the dirt road, bumping through the shallow potholes and avoiding deep ones.
Today is going to be different, he thought. He passed the old side road leading north. He always wondered where it led.
He had replaced his line and his old floats and weights and snelled hooks with new ones. His worms were fresh and juicy. Surely today I will catch a fish, he said to himself.
He drove back down at dusk.
Maybe tomorrow.
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Silence
I don’t remember the day the world ended. But I do remember the day I noticed. That photo was it, but I did not know what it meant until I sat in my darkened bathroom, staring at the newly developed film. The street was neither empty, nor abandoned. It was dead. The colours of the flowers wrapped in that red ribbon caught my eye, and as I crouched to take that photo, I could hear only the lonely silence of a graveyard after dark.
By Alexander McEvoy6 days ago in Fiction
For the Lasting I Saw Him
The day I last saw him was etched in the fragile glass of my memory, like a melancholic tableau suspended in time. It was a late autumn afternoon, the leaves surrendering their vibrant hues to the impending chill. The air was crisp, carrying with it the promise of winter's embrace. We had agreed to meet at the old café nestled at the corner of Elm Street, where the nostalgia of years gone by mingled with the aroma of freshly ground coffee.
By Ekombe hau8 days ago in Fiction
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