Thursday, February 18
I am struggling to keep this thing updated!
Here is an old flash fiction piece I wrote.
The sun is a deep orange like a fire blazing in the west. It wears a mixture of smoke and clouds as a hat, or maybe a blindfold. I watch it, but it can’t see me. The ocean is swallowing it. It’s always a little sad to watch as it falls beneath the horizon. I imagine it falling into the salty water with a giant splash, covering the sky with a fog of steam and plunging the world into infinite night. Darkness seems to last longer when I watch the sun set, and letters take longer to write.
I’ve written the same letter a thousand times. It always says the same thing, just in a different way. I blame him for a lot of our problems. My problems. I usually wait until the end to apologize for whatever I did wrong during the time we were together. My apologies are vague, and everything is still his fault when all is said and done. I never finish a letter. I never give him a letter. Not a single one.
I watch from the porch as the moon travels across the garden in the same path the sun took earlier. Dogs bark in the distance. As it passes over the roses, gleaming white light dances across each petal like a spotlight for the ladybugs. I picture them dancing together to the music the grasshoppers and crickets play. It’s hot and a mixture of dust and perspiration gathers on my forearms and temples. The sea will swallow the moon too in a few hours.
“I can’t believe I let you make me think I am a bad person,” he said to me once, after I gave him an abridged copy of my journal from the years we were dating. Of course, I mostly just included entries that highlighted his faults and mistakes, his shortcomings, and things about him I always wanted to change.
I sit with my knees folded like a toddler. I fit just right on the porch swing. The motion is soothing. A light breeze wafts across my damp skin and cools me. It brings the scent of flowers through the doors I left open. His flowers. I put them in a vase on the kitchen table when he brought them yesterday. I cried after he left but didn’t tell him. My pen and paper are napping on my lap. They know better. I'm writing another letter.
And a sunset picture of mine to accompany!
Category • Writing