short story sunday

Helen couldn't help glancing down the stairs. The wind was pushing hard against the building, making the open doorway bop grumpily against the stone holding it open. Her mind crawled slowly across the events of the past week, no longer wishing to keep the thoughts tethered to a leash.

That was the danger of it all really, of letting yourself go. There just wasn't any telling where you'd end up. Maybe here, sitting in this chair, in the dark, not listening to the thing you came to hear.

It was easier then she thought it would be. When you've been something for so many years, its hard to imagine pulling things apart and letting them just lay on the floor like that. But she did it. And now she kept stepping on parts of herself, wondering how she was going to find the thread to sew them back together.

There was that wind again. And the door. Thump, thump, thump. Like some strange jazz band that couldn't pull it together. But the building was solid. It could stand up against the uncertainty of the storm.

She could feel herself leaking slowly down the hallway, peeking shyly around the wood of the door. The time had come to get a move on, spill out completely and begin again.






Short Story Sunday is a series of mini stories based on random photos. They are quick, spontaneous flashes of abstract fiction.