I Have Written a Short Story
It is the hour of departure.
She read the note.
She puzzled over it.
Was it even intended for her?
It didn't have her name on it.
Yet it was left directly in her path.
Of course it was not her path. There were many who would have passed that same route. The note was probably theirs.
It was pinned to a tree so it hadn't just fallen from someone's pocket.
And if the words were not hers, why did she feel so compelled to puzzle over them for so long? To unravel them in her mind? To wonder of their origins.
The ink was black and the writing was perfectly formed. It was written by a person who took their time to contemplate their sharing. A cautious person who wrote in riddles with just enough kindness to cast her mind in light yet still enough anger and doubt to leave her cast amongst the shadows.
She had lived in the shadows all of her life. Not that anyone would notice.
She read and reread the first line. 'It is the hour of departure ' .
She wondered if the hour was now.
She had been on her way to work. Just dropped her boys off at school.
How often she had imagined driving hard and fast in the opposite direction to where she was supposed to be. Disappearing. Never here. Never there. No where.
She could not do it if course how could she be the legacy of destruction for her children.
So she kept on the roads expected. At just about the right speed. Sometimes she took her eyes off the road and caused a near car crash but noone had died yet.
She thought about that sometimes too. It flashed before her as she drove along dark lanes. A crash. Her death. The end.
She thought she had better leave the note where it was for now. It was probably not for her.
She got in the car, still in a dream. Driving on the same road as she always did.
Noone noticing.
They heard the sirens though.
The saw the lifeless form being wheeled into the ambulance.
There was no other car involved.
Just a wall on an empty lane
They say she has driven so hard and fast into that wall. That there were no sudden swerve marks on the road. It did not make sense. A crash. Her death.
The End
She read the note.
She puzzled over it.
Was it even intended for her?
It didn't have her name on it.
Yet it was left directly in her path.
Of course it was not her path. There were many who would have passed that same route. The note was probably theirs.
It was pinned to a tree so it hadn't just fallen from someone's pocket.
And if the words were not hers, why did she feel so compelled to puzzle over them for so long? To unravel them in her mind? To wonder of their origins.
The ink was black and the writing was perfectly formed. It was written by a person who took their time to contemplate their sharing. A cautious person who wrote in riddles with just enough kindness to cast her mind in light yet still enough anger and doubt to leave her cast amongst the shadows.
She had lived in the shadows all of her life. Not that anyone would notice.
She read and reread the first line. 'It is the hour of departure ' .
She wondered if the hour was now.
She had been on her way to work. Just dropped her boys off at school.
How often she had imagined driving hard and fast in the opposite direction to where she was supposed to be. Disappearing. Never here. Never there. No where.
She could not do it if course how could she be the legacy of destruction for her children.
So she kept on the roads expected. At just about the right speed. Sometimes she took her eyes off the road and caused a near car crash but noone had died yet.
She thought about that sometimes too. It flashed before her as she drove along dark lanes. A crash. Her death. The end.
She thought she had better leave the note where it was for now. It was probably not for her.
She got in the car, still in a dream. Driving on the same road as she always did.
Noone noticing.
They heard the sirens though.
The saw the lifeless form being wheeled into the ambulance.
There was no other car involved.
Just a wall on an empty lane
They say she has driven so hard and fast into that wall. That there were no sudden swerve marks on the road. It did not make sense. A crash. Her death.
The End
