I was thrown through the passages of time, a lull in the spaces between fate and destiny, and though, for all intents and purposes, I was mute. I regretted nothing.
I was not broken, I remained intact … more or less. I was as predictable as the moon’s rising, and given the circumstances, that was enough.
Shadows can’t afford to be picky.
Seasons come and go, but regardless if whether its autumn or spring, we’re hated.
Mother’s lament sprung into my mind as I scampered past them for the second time, that and the fact the morning was unusually crisp.
It got colder every fall, but this year the leaves hadn’t fallen from the maple, and the flowers were still blooming, so I’d thought I was safe. I should’ve known better.
As the broom came down hard, I flinched. That was too close, it had caught my tail, and I recalled Mother’s advice, when the apples fall, mice run.
Amen to that.
These micro tales were written based on the following prompts