Write
a short scene set at a lake, with trees and shit. Throw some birds in there,
too. By Dan Wiencek
The tree limbs were in that conscious divide, part of the way dying and part of the way springing back to life. It overlooked the once busy lake. At one time it housed children swimming within its shallows and fishing poles hanging where the water deepened.
Once a happy place of wonder and joy; now full of
sorrow and angst. What appeared punched with blue now cropped into an abyss.
Black and without feeling.
The house backed up to the reservoir where it always
smelled like Thanksgiving. Perfect meals and baked goods formerly prepared without
flaw. Now it stands as an empty birdcage. The house that no longer held onto
relationships anew. It withered and dwindled into nothingness. Thoughts long
forgotten. Memories shaded.
His love was lost. When she vanished, out went the
smells and tastes and colors. She who created what once was. His cares were
abandoned.
His once smooth exterior was now wrinkled and pining for
the care of a woman. He was lost and aging. Almost gone.
Waiting.
Just waiting.
To join her again.
Black and white.
