Floating untethered

Nowadays, there are moments when I feel as if I’m not present in this world. As if I’m in a dream where everything is sluggish — I look at my palms, wiggle my fingers but they seem to move with a delay, in slow glitchy motions — and a feeling of helplessness floods through me. I’m simply an observer floating untethered over the world, struggling to get a grip, find a hold, make sense of the changes flying past me even as they accelerate with every passing second.

Check out my other post from earlier today, ‘i can’t help but romanticise the night’, which is a tad bit happier.

Written in response to the image prompt provided by Sonya’s Three Line Tales, Week 217.

Photo by NASA on Unsplash

An Hour and a Half

Like crayons of every colour sticking out of their box – lined close to one another – the houses stood in front of me as the boat docked onto the port. I was expecting a camera to pop out and a ‘cut’ to be yelled, expecting the beauty in front of me to collapse like a temporary set up for a movie, for like a picturesque movie scene the site in front of me looked.

As I proceeded, I came up to a place where a canal snaked through – boats floating stagnant on the water – dividing the island, only to be connected by beautiful bridges that arched over it.

The balconies and windows lined with potted flowers, a common sight, but only adding to the dreamy haze that seemed to surround the place; their colours seeming to imitate those of the houses around.

I imagine: Juliet out on one of the balconies and Romeo standing on the cobbled streets below, committing themselves to one another.

A cluster of tables scattered at intervals outside restaurants, bustling with tourists. Small stalls bursting with souvenirs – postcards, key chains, magnets, bookmarks – dotted around the place. Shops adorned with intricate lace and glass works stand along the path where houses aren’t.

An hour and a half. I was in Burano for only an hour and a half, rushing through the beauty around to get to the next place on the list like a typical tourist. But that short time, apparently, was enough.

Photograph of Burano: Saakshi Gupta

A Thief. A Criminal.

“Time is a thief,”

you had said once.

And I hadn’t quite grasped the meaning of it back then. Your words always had a way of baffling me. And even though your face is fading away from my memory with every passing moment, your words, your words still echo through me clearly and sharply.

Time is indeed a thief, it is a criminal for taking you away from me and making me see sense in your words.

posted for Lillie McFerrin’s Five Sentence Fiction.

Photo by Zoe Holling on Unsplash

Happy Valentine’s Day, my dearies

She sits down on the grass, surrounded by the people who loved her. A cool breeze carrying the sweet fragrance of flowers caresses her face.

It’s unfortunate that many don’t even have a valentine, while she sits in the company of six. But she can’t bring herself to care as her happiness is all-consuming.

She looks around with a manic grin and takes out a beer from the cooler placed beside her. She pops the bottle open at the edge of one of the gravestones. William, the stone reads. That would be ex number… four, she thinks. She isn’t sure, not being able to keep the order straight anymore. Anyways, she knows William wouldn’t mind. After all, he loved her with all his life.

She lifts the hand with the beer bottle and tilts it a bit, as if toasting to something. Looking around once more at her lovers who had most unfortunately all turned to stone, she says in a voice as soft as her smile,

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my dearies.”

Photo by Mat Reding on Unsplash