By Richard Teague
She looked into my eyes, close enough to see her own reflection there, relaxed her grip on my arm, her gentle breath mingled with my stridor, like a requiem, then she kissed me.
The bedroom was turning grey, the music too started to fade, the end wasn’t so unpleasant, I thought. Now my peripheral vision shrank until I could only see her face, close to mine, a final look, a smile, soft like a lover’s.
“It’s easy, just let go,” she whispered. Her breath carried the smell of freshly turned earth.
She moved away, replaced the syringe on the bedside table.
Let go of the wind you’re holding in
To meet with your doom
And make them let go of theirs
To clear a crowded room
love this Maltesha – few words but well chosen – Stella
I want the backstory!
Woe.
This is a grim story but a well-executed one. The form seems to lend itself to a surprise ending. Nice job.
I want backstory too but will imagine it for myself! 🙂
This story got me really curious. What’s the significance of that syringe?