Tag: prompt

#27: Binoculars

He uses Binoculars because he is afraid to touch her. He’s afraid to talk to her, to face her head on. He’s scared because he fears she will laugh at him, reject him, avoid him.

He wants to talk to her, but the fear swallows him up whole. He finds that he likes watching her from afar.

The way she carries herself when no one else is watching. How calm and comfortable she is when no one else is around.

He wants to touch her, but she’s too far away.

Until she’s banging on his door at three in the morning.

#25: XXX

The list in her hands was old. The page crumpled up multiple times, as if shoved into a pocket or a fist several times. The names were scribbled in a quick scrawl, the red X’s across them a sign of something.

“What is this?” She asked, gazing up from the list at the man in uniform before her.

“A hit list,” he said, adjusting his belt around his hips. “My boss wants me to keep you safe and these men are–” he let a brief smirk cross his lips, “–were after you.”

She put her hands to her hips. “Obviously my father doesn’t think I can take care of myself,” she said, unsheathing the knife from it’s place at her hip. “But he doesn’t know about my list.”

Ten minutes later, she placed a red X over his name.

#23: Witness

I thought I got away clean.

No scars,

No bruises,

No pain,

From the damage I caused.

Too bad I was my own witness.

Now all I feel is you.

#18: Unread

Things used to be easier when letters were sent physically. Sure, it would take longer, and there might be the off chance it wasn’t delivered.

But at the same time, you wouldn’t know if they had left your message unread.

Somehow, the little red notification under every message I send is more painful the longer it goes on.

Will everything I send you remain unread?

Nothing is Timeless

The photograph is old and faded, but she can see that they love each other. The photograph from years ago, and she doubts her parents would even recognize themselves after all the years.

Time is a bitch.