Fiction

This is the second part to a short story called Adonis. You can read the first part here. … “What is this life?” I whispered aloud. Nothing answered, just the…

The sun shone vehemently; keen on making up for the colder days we had endured up until a week before when, suddenly, it felt like the seasons had woken up from their slumber, hastily jostling each other out of the way.

The heat is unbearable. The car’s AC isn’t working again and while the wind whipping through the window offers some relief, none is found when the car is not moving.

Do not hurry,

Tarry a while.

For the flower shall wilt.

The child will grow.

The sun will set

And how many of those have you missed

In a lifetime?

How many have you seen?

A little voice spoke up in the darkness once. “It would be awfully nice to have some light here.” But the other voices, always so critical about everything, hushed it back into silence. At least for a while.

I have an owl on my mantelpiece. It’s white, made of porcelain. It has a small chip on its left ear, from when I was in one of my rages, when I had swept everything from the shelf to the floor.

There was one other time when Death had shown itself to Ellen.

Come in! Oh don’t be shy dear – no, no need to take off your shoes. Heavens! If all my guests were as courteous!

Someone spilled a few drops of their drink on her shoulder. The cold beverage trickled down her back and she shuddered. Not out of cold really. It was just her way of containing the sudden urge to throw the tray she was holding at the bastard who had not even turned to excuse himself.

He was crossing the street and she was coming towards him from the other side. He’s still not sure what had caught his attention first…

The monochrome tiles gleamed under the hurried steps of the waiters.

It smelled strange, like rotting apples turned sickeningly sweet, though there was nothing of the sort to speak of.

I love coming to cafés on my own. I like watching people, their intricacies, their stories.

It was coming, on footsteps lighter than feathers, darker than death.