He walked over to the bench that overlooked the waterfront.
Her laughter echoed over the bay, swathed in blues and greens, but more blue than green. They sat on the brown bench and gazed at the blue waters. He could not have asked for a better place for their last date.
It was their last date in an on-off relationship and he had decided to bend his knee for her, and in his hand would be their ring. And from tomorrow, they would have moved forward, and this would be their last date indeed.
He knew she was the one he had been waiting for. They had had their fair share of fights and misgivings – one fight had seen her aiming a vase at his face. Yet they had stuck together for so long. So, he had realised, they should stick together till death do them apart.
As he went down on his knee, she got up to shield him from the red hot wave that crashed from the shore onto the waves of the sea.
He remembered searching for her eyes but instead finding tears in front of his. He shivered from the overwhelming pain of that memory. It made him drop his phone that played the recordings of the fateful day, when a bomb blast had separated them, over a distance greater than physical.
The video was playing as it always did: at this spot, on this day for every single year for the past 40 years, and he clasping the now chipped ring.
The scene on his mobile ended with an image of the ruckus of the bay blown apart in a bloody red hue. The authorities had set right the place for the public’s eye. But in his mind’s eye, their last date would always be bathed in bloody red.
One fateful day, the machinery halted and they were all flung about. Unfortunately for Rewati, she fell on the solid floor. Exhausted, the ancient woman realised that she was going up. Her life flashed before her eyes.
The old man stood as if he was confronting the headstone. The grave was of a girl who had passed away in her youth. Her name brought back memories that were stained with the pain she had wrought onto him. He remembered it like yesterday: her advances, his refusal, and the consequent betrayal.
Today is a free writing day. Write at least four-hundred words, and once you start typing, don’t stop. No self-editing, no trash-talking, and no second guessing: just go. Bonus points if you tackle an idea you’ve been playing with but think is too silly to post about.
Today’s prompt: write this story(the first paragraph is already provided) in first person, told by the twelve-year-old sitting on the stoop across the street.
Today’s twist: Build this twelve-year-old as a character.
The neighbourhood has seen better days for Mrs. Pauley has lived there since before anyone remembered. She raised a family of six boys, who’d all grown up and moved away. Mr. Pauley had passed away three months ago. With no source of income, she fell back on her rent. The landlord, accompanied by the police came to evict Mrs. Pauley from the house she’s lived in for forty years.
Or so they say. It could even be more. I never knew them personally, save two reasons. My dad used to work with Mr. Pauley. And I used to live with them.
A disclaimer: This is a purely fictional post. Partly inspired from Hamlet, though. Any other similarity with characters living, dead or created would simply be co-incidental. Point Included Later: And this is the first part of the series. The links to the next parts can be found below.
Thoughts of suicide have been haunting me for quite some time. Actually, I’ve been bringing those thoughts inside my head. Ever since I was framed for fraudulent practice in my institution. I have always been a high flier. But jealousy probably made her accuse me and get me debarred from the university.