He glances at the clock. Its incessant ticking is a reminder of missed opportunities and wasted years. He once seemed full of life, vibrating with potential. Now he sits alone at the kitchen table, waiting.
The rejection letters scattered before him draw his attention away from the pounding clock. He finally tried, after lingering in a paralytic state of mind. Now he wonders how long one should keep trying, which is why he waits.
A swig from the vodka bottle clutched in his left hand should burn his throat, but physical pain has long since been muted. All that remains is the emotional remnants of a failed life. He takes another swig and looks at the deafening clock. Now he knows the waiting is over, cocking the gun gripped in his right hand.
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(This piece of flash fiction was inspired by a recent selfie.)
Thank you for reading or listening to my half-blind words.
Freak Out,
JLH
P.S. A recent poem...
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A Twitter thread of blogs & music...
Good to know it’s fiction! 😱
ReplyDeleteI thought I'd better mention it so people wouldn't be too worried. 😉
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