Friday Fictioneers 4-26-2017

friday-fictioneers-farm-path

frost-on-the-tombstone-liz
PHOTO PROMPT © Liz Young

He liked the winter mornings best; the chill in the air; his frosted breath. Cold fingers, toes and ears. Lone bench welcoming him like a lover.

He didn’t know who was buried in the nearby grave. The name had faded long ago. Husband? Wife? Son or daughter? He’d never know.

Sometimes he wanted to leave his life, settle in the tiny house by the cemetery. Live solitary. Write his music. Watch the sunset and sunrises.

His cell broke the silence.

“Lo?”

“Are you coming home?”

It was time.

“Tomorrow, babe. Tomorrow.”

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