Chapter Text
An Ode To My Unfinished Projects
Father’s skin sagged around his cheeks, yellowing and wrinkled.
He crumpled the second he saw her.
The streets are barely lit by the orange glow of the street lamps.
Sometimes she would hum along to Johnny Cash or Patsy Cline and if she was feeling particularly upbeat that night, Jackie Wilson.
It seemed that every ounce of happiness that they once did have was no more.
A few more age lines had etched themselves into her face and her hair had the telltale signs of unnatural hair dye.
Here she heard only the sound of crickets chirping in the mulch of her newly minted veggie garden and the occasional squark of a galah.
It’s like a devil that sits on his shoulder and whispers sweet nothings into his ear, telling him:
The air seemed thicker this morning.
He moved his hands to his hips and felt the familiar hilt of the Bannockburn sword and as he looked down the gold handle glinted in the sunlight.
It stays steady though, getting to the edge but never far enough to slip over the edges and drizzle down the sides.
She stood in disarray, hands shaking as she held out two hastily made tuna sandwiches.
A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead and landed on the grease-stained collar of his grey-white blouse.
It was always satisfying to watch the flames dissipate into nothingness as the water hit it no matter how small the fire.