The desk had been unused for a decade. Someone had pushed it to the far end of the shed and dumped an unwanted pot plant on it. The plant thrived on the water dripping from the roof and hid the untold secrets hidden in the drawers. The new owner had big plans for the land, wishing to return the former estate to its glory. The unearthing of a serial killer’s diary and the discovery of the graveyard in her new back garden shattered her dream. Instead, the monstrosity became known for unearthed murder victims and the closing of cold cases.
The unearthed toys meant she’d been there. But her body had not been found. Surely that meant she was alive? The night she had been taken from her bed, her favourite playthings went missing as well. I always imagined them comforting her, reminding her of home, giving her hope. My beautiful curly-haired daughter. A sob escaped me from deep inside. We had to find her, we had to! Bob’s arms pulled me to his chest. “It’s not over yet. We will find our little girl.” But it was already too late. She had been sold to the highest bidder.
I woke up with a feeling of dread. The day was meant to be a celebration of the Resurrection of Christ. But it reminded me of other events. Personal events. The death of a family and my belief in the goodness of humanity. Remembering past Easters caused tears to run down my face. Egg hunts. Family dinners. Togetherness. Destroyed by a gun and a psychopath claiming we would all be resurrected. My meal today would be a solitary one in memory of the Resurrection, the love of a family, and the annihilation of a church community.
(I wished to write a piece on the celebration on Easter but my hands typed the above. In spite of this piece, I do wish everyone a wonderful Easter Sunday with their family)
The arched hallways were filled with a hushed silence, soothing her soul. Moving slowly, she breathed in the pure air. She was safe now. No longer would she live a life embroiled in the darkness of others, their hatred seeping into the goodness of her inner being. No longer would the sounds of the embittered city hound her thoughts and question her actions. The Old Religion would cloister her within its walls and give her refuge. And in return? She would give her life to combing the books that had survived, searching for the truths to help an ailing society.
There was a time when I thought the train tracks leading out of the city would take me away from what had become my life. Tainted. Stained by my environment. Haunted by those who had abused me. Hope had dwindled. And yet, for a moment, it had been ignited by what I believed to be love. Disillusionment and betrayal had led to this moment. I no longer have the will to struggle through life.
The rush of adrenaline as I fall through the air makes me feel truly alive. Maybe ending it was a mistake.
When the rains first came, everyone rejoiced. Harvests had wilted under the sorching sun and the fear of famine was fast becoming a reality. Shouts of joy, however, soon turned into panic. Water seeped underneath doorways, and roofs slowly let in the water that had hammered against them. Homes were destroyed, lives were lost, heros were born. Mud embraced all as the water levels lowered. Famine was now a reality and the shopping carts that littered the area would not be filled with fresh produce any time soon.
The white walls stifled her as she hurried along the walkway. Each day was the same as the last. How she wished to break free of the monotony, the routine of it all! She did not hear the soft footfalls that deliberately followed her, nor did she realise he had watched for weeks. As she struggled against the wiry strength of her captor, she instinctively knew that she would wish for the mundane in the days to come. The white-walled pathway became silent again – until it echoed a few hours later with the sound of her name.
Clouds moved over the city, bringing the noxious gases that would change the inhabitants’ lives. They slowly extinguished the light and the carefree days of the past. They would remain for weeks, smothering hope and snuffing out the breath of many. Survivors would burrow underground, taking over the sewers and subway stations. Their lives would evolve, adapting to the remains of a once powerful city. The remaining few would grow strong and discover the cause of the life-changing catastrophe. Planning and plotting would begin, long after the instigators had forgotten them. But they would not forget. Revenge would be sweet! (100 words)
The automobile had been passed onto him by his grandfather. Weekends saw him tinkering with the machine, buffing the chromework, and lovingly cleaning the leather upholstery. While working on the car, he would remember the pleasant moments spent with his role model. He wished often he had listened to the last piece of advice given over the bonnet of the car: “Marry a woman who understands the enticing purr of a well-run engine.” Instead her beauty, charisma and joie de vivre had beguiled him. Twenty years later, she had become bitter with disappointment and they had nothing in common. (99 words)
The gloomy surroundings were free of hope and laughter. Mothers hurried their children home and old folk scurried along as fast as they could. The area had long been forgotten by those who had the power to change things. Parks were neglected and maintenance crews were slow to do repairs. Nature, however, has a way of providing beauty. Signs of Spring pushed through the gritty soil, suggesting hope and renewal. The colour and optimism of the flower did not last. The gang members gathered near the natural beauty and trampled the plants heartlessly. Their dominance remained unchallenged.