Friday Fictioneers 3-26-2017



The mansion didn’t look old, yet I felt the oldness. The oddness. The otherworldness. Did I believe in ghosts? Not a word. And yet, I stood, pressed to rusted metal, staring, longing so hard tears could not help but come.


Night settled. The moon rose, pale crescent in the sky. Wind rustled bone-white leaves. Would it be now? Was this it? The moment for which I longed? The end of my journey?


Night passed. Dawn came. Like so many hundreds of mornings before, I turned and walked away.


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