They stood and watched each other in silence.
Tomorrow, there would be no blood moon
And the last of the flowers would have fallen to the ground.
It was Halloween, a festive scene,
there were princesses, and hobbits from The Shire.
But amidst the laughter, no one saw
that the moon had come dressed as fire.
photo by Never Krcmarek via Unsplash
Leaves and debris are all that remain in the old home.
Unseen shapes and unheard whispers linger in the passages.
Suddenly, a gust of wind whooshes through the cracked glass, blowing the leaves and scattering the memories.
Inspired by a photo by Watari via Unsplash in 3LineTales
A cold breeze rustles the tent flaps of the amusement park.
A flyer lifts in the gust and disappears into the darkness. Wooden horses glow grey in the eerie light of the carousel.
They wait…for the people to come and colour them with their laughter.
Why do we never go anywhere, asked the peach horse with the gold bridle.
“The people like it that way. The same patterns, the same results…afraid of stepping off. They’ll be back tomorrow…you’ll see,” replied the wise old grey, whose paint had long faded from the scuffing of shoes.
“Lights, camera, action”
Laughter rippled among the other horses as they strained against the poles to spot the joker in their midst.
But night had fallen and the caretaker had switched off the power supply.
(3 short stories inspired by Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt)
photo by Harpal Singh via Unsplash
If she chose to keep walking the grey gravel path, life would go on just the same… no better, never worse.
Endless possibilities lay at the deepest end of the pool if she dived in, but she hesitated, for fear of what lay in between.
She made up her mind, closed her eyes and…
A short story for Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt.
Two countries, two sets of houses, and two rows of boats that never crossed the invisible line in the water.
Two sets of people, who were united in their love of sunsets and the sea.
Two neighbours, who always waved and smiled across the one border they never created.
Photo by Fabio Mangione via Unsplash
He could still hear his father’s words: ‘You’ll never be special…just get a job. No son of mine is ever going to be a dancer.’
But, every night, after turning off the gaudy neon light at the family store, he would dance away his mundane day; this was his secret.
He smiled as he flowed into a perfect arabesque; there was nothing special about the three-day-old turkey either, but that too was a secret.
It watches quietly as the people smile, like so many have before them.
The faces change through the years, and those that remember them will fade away too.
But, it carries their memories within itself forever.
Faded yellows and frayed edges.
Fragments of paper that had aged beyond repair.
Showing faces that would be young forever, laughing in colours that only they could see.