Sunday Photo Fiction 3-4-2017


Each week a photo is used, donated by one of the participants of Sunday Photo Fiction, and the idea is to write a story with the photo as a prompt in around 200 words.

The memory of the olive remained until the last. Last moment. Last thought. Last touch of reality. Not that his life had reality, not any more. His life consisted of huddled flesh covered in skin not his own, cringing, crying, screaming to go home, but, unable to admit weakness and running instead, forward, backwards, tree to tree and rock to rock. Screaming. An outlet for paralyzing fear.

He was a terrified little boy, no longer little. A man. No, a boy trying on a man’s shoes and finding himself sadly inadequate. Not that he was; what if his father had faced the cringing and the running and the constant fear of that single last moment when pain and peace became one?

He lived monk-like, taking orders from high-ranked Man-Gods, knowing only he shouldn’t be there. Shouldn’t be death itself, taking from those on the other side of the line. Weren’t they boy-men like himself? Terrified with their Man-Gods behind, lying them on? Wasn’t everybody terrified, Man-Gods behind lying them on?

He was. He knew he was. He knew when the last act opened. Curtains parted. Cheers for the moment when pain and peace became one.


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