The gifts we receive,
Organ donors are in town,
Life’s on holiday.
About the Creator
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More stories from George Zelinski and writers in Poets and other communities.
Harbinger of Despair
Who was he but just a man? To feel the weight of the world on his shoulders, he was no Atlas. Yet his bowed stance and tender neck suggested otherwise. It came to him in a dream: the absent stoking of an everlasting flame. A gnarled finger pointed towards an inevitable end, a sign that couldn't be ignorantly shaded; recurrence made sure of it. He didn't remember how long it had been going on; time didn't matter at this point. He just knew it was long enough to be petrified to fall asleep.
By James U. Rizzia day ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
This is a unique take on this challenge. I like it a lot. I'm Bill. ⚡💙⚡