This is a thematic sequel to last week’s story.
There’s no plot bridge. The two tales are in no way related, beyond a similar motif. They’re both about waiting.
I’ve never done this before – taken a theme and explored it from different angles. It’s interesting to write completely different pieces that are about the same concept. Especially THIS concept.
Waiting can mean so many things.
It’s also indicative of where I am in life. I’m in a holding pattern of sorts. Waiting. I suppose writing about others waiting is my brain’s way of tackling that topic.
Ah, the intricacies of the human mind.
The prompt is, once more, from The Prediction:
100 words maximum, excluding the title, of flash fiction or poetry using all of the three words above (‘chafe’, ‘French’, and ‘voyage’) in the genres of horror, fantasy or science fiction.
I hope you’re having a wonderful Saturday, waiting only for good things in pleasant places.
the waiting 2
The cords chafe, but she struggles. The French man said he’d be back with food.
Fuck that. Fuck his food. Fuck him.
She just wants to go home. This particular trip stopped being fun the minute she bumped into him outside the hostel. Vacation over. Voyage finished. Trek done.
His cigarette breath turned out to be one of the more pleasant things about him. The unpleasant could fill a book. She knew.
Footsteps on the stairs. He comes.
All she can do is sit and wait, hands bound. All she can do is endure.