‘Drip... Drip... Drip...’ the mud from her boots, dropping to join the mud below.
‘Drip... Drip... Drip...’ the tears down her face, dropping to join the rain down below.
She knew he would never come, but still she waited. Shivering from the cold, the fog crept into her coat. Black figures emerged from the mist as it ebbed, each one making her heart stop, but they never moved, except for their slowly appearing branches as they tossed in the wind.
But he did come, his head bowed as he sat on the opposite side of the crimson bench, a mirror image of where he used to sit. She wished she could climb back through the mirror, back in time, back to his side. It was too late, he was too late. She stood up, walked away, never looking back.
‘Drip... Drip... Drip...’ the mud from her boot-prints on the bench, dropping to join the mud below.
‘Drip... Drip... Drip...’ the tears down his face.
Image from Creative Writing Ink http://creativewritingink.co.uk/writing-exercises/
What a sad story. Wonder why he comes to late
ReplyDeleteWell, one cannot be patient all the time... so sad, he's too late.
ReplyDelete"But he did come, his head bowed as he sat on the opposite side of the crimson bench, a mirror image of where he used to sit."
ReplyDeleteYou describe their relationship very well. Sad indeed.
Oooh...I love this! It's emotional and somewhat mysterious at the same time. Good job!
ReplyDeleteThanks for the comments everyone! Ulilkecil - that's exactly what I was going for! :D
ReplyDeleteOh, what a sad story... And nicely written... :)
ReplyDelete