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May 22, 2009

Friday

It's after me!

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It’s after me. I thought I’d successfully fled it; but no matter how hard I try, it chases me, it touches me. Yet, I don’t want it to touch me. I’ve fought so many years to escape it, to be a pretender. After all, the world is full of pretenders who act as if their pretending is not pretending. However, pretending that everything is all right does not make everything all right. When I pretend it hunts me down until I can pretend no more.

'Go away!’ I scream at it.

But it doesn’t listen. Help me somebody, please help.

Posted by: Anonymous at May 22, 2009 5:40 AM · Permalink

"You really shouldn't waste your time," I told the officer. "I wasn't speeding and this conversation never happened."

He was not deterred. "Please sign here to acknowledge that you have been ticketed for speeding. You may challenge it if you like, but I have you on radar and video driving 75 in a 55 zone."

I returned his book and pen. "I appreciate your courtesy, officer. The next time we meet, I promise to return the favor."

"I hope that we won't see each other again, sir."

"Oh, I'm sure we will. Time travel is all about setting things right."

Posted by: Owl Creek Observer at May 22, 2009 11:16 AM · Permalink

It’s after me! Hummmm. What to write? Sometimes a line clogs the brain, chokes creativity blocking all chances of cleverness. IT could be so many things. IT could be a past or a creature or even an ex. IT could be dangerous or just curious. IT may even cause excitement or longing. Perhaps the entire creation of IT is an illusion the designers of this site threw at us to make us jumpy today, paranoid at our own shadows wondering if this fiction has indeed crossed over to our reality. (Boy I am full of IT but here’s 100 words!)

Posted by: marie at May 22, 2009 6:37 PM · Permalink

It clings to the walls, the faded curtains, the dirty carpet, like a stench. I can’t see it, but I feel it. I imagine I can smell it. The pain in my chest burns, my body convulses, my limbs are as useful as though they were broom sticks attached to my torso by string.
Death is here. It’s after me. I can’t even speak to attempt a negotiation, my tongue wet and slack.
I let my imagination create a saviour and suddenly, quietly, gently, I let go.

Posted by: GKJ at May 24, 2009 9:27 PM · Permalink