Originally posted on I Write Her7/8/2018. Published here with revisions.
my thoughts are unique or are they am i an original or just a borrower from the inspirers of my past i fear the quality words will all have been spoken i wonder when it’ll all have been said will my voice be muted before i die before i leave my mark…
with all we’ve seen this year where’s the hope that it will get better dread has crammed itself into every pocket of our lives this feeling of more shoes dropping more devastation landing on already piles high wreckage
an upcoming worrisome election more and more people dying from covid and violence anger abounds in every major city disillusionment rampant four more months to go i fear 2020 is not done with us yet
Zarah heard screams, then pounding – silence. What happened? Her hands and feet were tied. The room was dark but she could see shapes. They did not move.
“Zarah?” A voice called.
Zarah didn’t know who could know she was here. What should she do? Was someone coming to rescue her? Who else could be looking for her? Her kidnapper knew she was here. But, if he sent someone to torture her more, she wanted to stay hidden.
Just then a small critter, which she couldn’t see in the dark, ran over her leg. Automatically, she tried to scream, but the gag stopped her, yet her legs jerked without thought. Her feet hit something solid. She heard something above her make a sound, something off-balance. She couldn’t see what it might be. Would it fall on her?
Metal fell on the cement floor beside her. A door opened.
My mate and I found the perfect location for our new home. We built to our specifications to meet our needs. That’s always an exciting time for me. I love the anticipation of new views and new life. When our home was completed, I settled in for the birth of our children. Before they could be born though, a huge, fearful creature intruded and I had to flee for my life and safety.
“I hope they didn’t leave for good,” the man mused as he saw the two robins fly away from the nest they had just built in the bush right outside his window. Earlier, he had looked closer and saw one of them sitting on the nest. Had the eggs been laid yet? He was excited to watch their progress. Had they flown for good? He hoped not.
They never returned.
A Fair Trade
“I’ll trade you all of mine for only a portion of yours, a tiny portion,” the middle-aged man said casually to his friend.
“No way in Hell!” His friend exclaimed. “I’m sorry, but that kind of trade would do me no good.”
“Sure it would. You would gain a wider experience. You could see from a new perspective.”
“Nope. I’ll keep my limited experience and narrow perspective.”
“Well, don’t say I didn’t make the offer.
“You offered,” his friend laughed. “And, I was smart enough to turn it down.”
“How about five minutes?”
“Five minutes of Hell can be a real eye-opener.”
“Look at it from my point of view. I’ll take just five minutes of a childhood feeling loved and cared for. I have no idea what that might be like.”
“I feel for you, but I can’t. Sorry.”
They parted, unable to bridge that gap.
Herrmann was surprised to find himself in 1951 on a farm in Kansas. Still trying to make sense of it, he’s grown fond of grass waving under wind, trees and moonlight. His work has been published in print and online, even some of both in languages he can’t read.