Pacing her apartment, she waits for him to call. She stares at the phone, perched innocently on a side table. Wills it to ring. She strides to the window, grips the ledge, her fingers tightening as she views the busy street below. Couples laughing, children running, a solitary man consulting his watch. She turns away. Why doesn’t he phone? Damn him! Puts on her coat, grabs her keys. One last lingering look at the unforgiving phone.
waiting no longer she slams the door behind her: the phone starts to ring.
Image credit: Tylor Heery @ Unsplash The image shows a rotary dial pink telephone, and next to it are cards showing the answering machine messages on different cards. “Leave us a message” , “After the tone” and “Thank you”
Returning to the steps where first they met, he sits awhile, alone, bereft. Crimson petals like blood red tears scatter on cold, hard stone. His heart bleeds for her, his loss, a future that will never be.
Image credit: Yana Hurskaya @ Unsplash The image shows an earthenware jug filled with red tulips. The jug is sitting on old stone steps.
snatching up the tools of her trade gathering together her books, her notes small remnants of her life
eyes wide with fear her flatmate clutches their little dog to her chest
travelling by train, on foot they finally reach the border her skills, at least are portable
inspired by an article from yesterday’s SA Sunday Times in which three SA final year students escaped from Ukraine to Slovakia (their little dog, Mowgli, made it out too) Image credit: Houcine Ncib @ Unsplash The image shows a girl carrying an oversized geometry set in her arms, looking directly at the camera.
Trudging through dark, rain-drenched streets, sodden feet sliding over cobbles, hope ebbs away, like rivulets flowing over muddy gutters. The storm rages beyond the border, and wave upon wave of the cowed and the cowering flee; families struggling, dragging straggling old folk and hungry, wailing kids. Doors open, women beckon, many are taken in. But not us.
midnight approaches and now the streets are empty will we ever find refuge?
Image credit: Carter Saunders @ Unsplash The image shows a red neon sign that reads “Vacancy” over a black background.
fingers slipping joints clicking every moment counts digits creaking thoughts fading time is running out no more posting no more scrolling you can’t WhatsApp me now battery’s dying signal’s failing . . .
Image credit: 8machine@ Unsplash The image shows two skeleton’s hands reaching towards a digital device enveloped in purple-pink haze.
He eyes her through the filter of his almost untouched wine glass, while she stares absently through sparkling windows at manicured gardens. Stiff as the starched collar of his borrowed shirt, he rehearses the lines he wants to say. He takes another taste of wine, the unfamiliar liquid rolls across his tongue. She sweeps from the table without a glance, leaving long-stemmed roses scattered in her wake.
seizing the moment clutching a crimson flower he strides after her but she’s already dancing in the arms of another. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Image credit: Olga Solodilova @ Unsplash The image shows a couple dining. The man has a glass of wine in his hand and he is looking at his companion. The woman is staring the other way, holding a few long stem flowers.