tasting silence: a 100-word story

photo-1497006638916-1021f5d5b02b

Silence has always tasted sweet since I was a young boy. I find bliss in building a world of my own, alone. Now, with only the whirring of her ventilator, my tongue is filled with bitter gourd juice, swimming through the boulder inside my throat.

Her hands, I’ve held since she was 24, feel cold against my wrinkled touch. Her lungs ceased breathing. Her kidneys rested. Her once soft lips, mummed with tubes.

When it is over, said and done, it was a time, and there was never enough of it.

I would give everything just to hear her laugh again.

08.18.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash
Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
For dVerse Prosery Monday: A Time
Today, the heaven opens for a lovely and quiet soul, my Pishimoni who welcomed me to the family and loved me since day 1. You are loved, Pishimoni. Tomar kotha mone porche.

dawning dreams: a 100-word story

douglas-bagg-vF8Pc4h_wBo-unsplash

It starts with the usual scene.

The hibiscus bush void of bloom, filled with sharp twigs like fangs of the past, looking at him from his bedroom window. The door less-an-inch open like a defeated sigh. The bedsheet crumpled, free of human warmth. The duplicate cold key, slouched.

The screech of tires against the gravel road, careful but rushed. The tightening of his chest. The forming of rock inside his throat.

His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream. 

He jolted awake, gasping for some needed oxygen. The dawn willing him, but his voice’s too afraid to call her name, again.

05.13.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo by Douglas Bagg on Unsplash
Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
For dVerse Prosery: Maya Angelou

mildewed memory

Mildew and mould hover freely inside the decade-age cabin, eventually welcoming a pair of sneakers, uncertainly wandering. Each step receives a pained, creaking answer. Unhurried climbing continues. One. Two. Three. Four. And more.

Her gloved hand reaches for the rusted knob, still frozen with the last breath of winter. With pounding chest, she opens the familiar room, a bedroom she once called hers.

It is still there.

The crumpled paper her nine-year-old palm crushed on a disappointing Christmas eve.

No one left and no one came on the bare platform.”

They left without her and never came back decades after.

04.14.2020
©2020 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo via Unsplash
Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
For dVerse Prosery: Edward Thomas