The footprint

The office is devoid of any personal touches except for a single print on the wall. A footprint actually. A photo on canvas. Probably made at one of those cheap "Art" shops in town.

I asked her about it once. Normally I wouldn't question anything about her, she's so uptight I think she'd fire me on the spot on most days but I must have caught her in a good mood. Just as well, the curiosity just spilled out of me when I saw it. She's not exactly sentimental.

"My husband was killed." She told me. "We were on holiday in Madrid. A storm caught us by surprise so we sheltered under a shop front in an alley. When it was over, we headed for the hotel. One step out from under the canopy and he was shot in the head. That step was the last thing he ever did. That step was my husband's last action. It was a mugger. He wanted our money. I ignored him and sat by the footprint. Before the rain dried, I took this photo."

The big tree

They all had to take turns at shooting - chipping away at it, piece by piece, generation by generation.

Writing promts: Train, Doctor, Chasing

He's close. I know he is. Since I met him I've... felt him? This still doesn't seem real. Piece it together once more. I was in my surgery. A man walks in, complains of a stomach pain. I barely think about the first few minutes. Usual questions. Have a look. Lie down please. Tap, tap, tap. Then I saw it. Just on his back as he pulled his top down. Plain as anything. He knew I saw it. He stared at me, then ran.

Now I'm here. It's the smell. That's why I can find him. It's in my nose, stuck right in there. It makes me sick if I think about it too much. Like burnt chocolate mixed with bleach.

It's not strong enough to block out my own stink though. I've shit and pissed in my pants so many times now I've lost count. I have to find him, no time to stop.

All the passengers are looking. They can smell me too. Don't care. Where is he?

He's here! I know he is! On this carriage! But where? Can't see him. It's not any of these people. Too fat. Too old. Too ginger. Too spotty. No. No. No no no no no.

"Where are you?!"

Got to stop doing that. The trolley guy's looking at me. They'll kick me off next station. Head back the other way. Maybe he's in another- THERE. Right there that's him!  It smells so strong now. Turn him round.

"I've found y-"

A woman? But she smells. Wait! Where's she going? Come back!

"Hey!"

How did she do that? Is that parkour? I'm just gonna run at the cart.

"Shit!"

Fucking tea. My leg's burned for sure. There she is! There's no where to go from here.

"Wait!"

Holy shit! She just... is she dead? Is it safe to stick my head out and check? What?! How did she survive that, let alone land on her feet! We must be going 70 at least. Stop the train...

The man that one helped. He gave everything for free, saw it as expected of him to feed, fix, soothe, support, build, preserve, watch out for and love.

But he was dying. No one stopped to ask "Can we help you?".

"Can I help you?". The question he asked everyday. At work, at home. On holiday and on trips. Everywhere he went, that question.

Reawakening

Dust on eyelids and a bone shaking creak. So much... stuff. Just piled on top and blocking the light. All that time just gone, unobserved.

Stretching. Yawning. The body is tired and the mind is sluggish but the eyes, the eyes are so bright. The flame lives on inside.

No Return

You can't come back. Take everything you need and put your affairs in order. You can't come back.

This is now a closed moment. It is over. Action here has expired. It exists now only in memory.


You are new and the old is gone. It hasn't grown into you, it isn't still inside. You are changed utterly from one state into another. You are touched by an emotional death and a new being has taken your place.

Come now, there is much to do.