And it might just be my angels I let go.
Battlefield so far away—
Nobody ever listens but the wind.
Children home for tea-time
And the rapping comes a-knocking at the door.
Sheets turned down; lamps lit low:
But still the breath that builds inside your head.
They are the ones upon the path;
They walk in quiet, under shaded trees.
The feeling swells and then beats back;
Where is she in the rubble: hooded, unafraid?
As far as anyone knew
Time was just a beast
That crawled its way out of the fog and lay down,
Dripping, at your feet.
History is a long, black knot
Tied to an anchor in the deep.
You heard her calling out for blood,
But just ahead; always out of reach.
He walked ‘til he was no longer afraid;
Saw shuttered people (gaping windows) and he knew:
All was in order (dishes stacked in tidy rows).
Who could come calling with a rapping at the door?
Sunday funday. And maybe Monday a bit too. Let’s hit it.
To quote the initial master of ceremonies:
"Here it is, another edition of the prompt game!
The rules: I post the following dialogue, but without any context. Then youwrite a short story using the dialogue. When you’re finished, send it to me! Or post it on your Tumblr with the tag…