at the office over the weekend, so instead of doing something constructive, like fixing the irrigation system that’s annoying the shit out of me, ’cause now I have to actually get up and move the sprinkler around, whereas I could just turn a valve, I opted to dip my pen in the ink of my imagination and completed another entry for the weekly flash fiction competition, run by AdHocfiction. (Phew, that’s a long sentence!)
The editors made my day by featuring my entry as an option for this week’s voters choice. Again. I am flattered. I should be happy. As a matter of fact, I should be jumping for joy but due to my recent crossfit regime I’m hurting too much to sit properly, never mind jumping. (By the way, I found it interesting that I’ve never felt my lats before which is the muscles on the sides of your back that will scream wild agony after doing a 100 pull ups.)
Now just imagine if I could win? It’s probably as unlikely as me being able to walk ten steps without falling against a wall anytime soon.
Anyhow, the prompt word was “crop“.
Dancing flames reflecting in his sad eyes, standing in front of the huge fireplace, rubbing his hands. Snowflakes melting in the glow of, what used to be, their favourite place in the house.
She didn’t say anything when she answered the door. He was actually surprised to be let in. The chill of winter has nothing on the coldness that exist between them now.
Without an “hello”, she instructed him to wait whilst Robyn gets her stuff. Then she turned her back and left him alone like that fateful morning, eight months ago.
He looks at the photos on the mantel. There’s nothing left of their life together. Then he sees the photo of Robyn and her mother. An old familiar photo placed in a new frame.
She must have learned how to “crop”, as the only thing left in this print was part of his arm, holding them both.
Maybe I’ll try again. Pull ups I mean.