There is a wooden rocking chair covered with dust.
And a mattress eaten away by time.
Discarded on the bare window sill sits an old teddy bear.
He saw it all and he still continues to see.
Love, illness and pain.
Death, dust and gloom.
She used to throw him into the air, then hug him and spin him around.
Now her fragile little body is buried six feet underground.
Thirty years on and you can still feel the haze of immense pain in the air.
That is why they lock the door and try to forget what happened here.
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I was trying to work out what to post today. Whether to write a piece to enter this week’s Friday Fictioneers or whether to share a little bit more of my work in progress Discovering Home.
While I was staring at my desk calendar debating which to do, the image of a dusty old rocking chair came to mind. I wrote down whatever flowed and then tidied it up to be 100 words only.
It’s a little sad and dark. I guess the ominous way I’ve been feeling lately has worked its way into every part of my brain.