I just came back from holidays, darlings, and so I am absotively swamped at work. Didn’t think I was going to contribute this week, but something spoke to me in this picture, and so I spent the last half-hour giving it voice. This is a story about loneliness, and how some people just slip through the cracks. You probably know someone like Martin. Reach out to them. Perhaps they’ve forgotten how, and it will take the kindness of a stranger — or a friend — to save them from themselves.
Thanks Bjorn for today’s photo — Friday Fictioneers is brought to you by: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, and the makers of the Papyrus font. If you want to contribute or just read more stories, please click on the little blue frog below.
Martin hadn’t packed it in and moved to some secluded spot in the woods, like he often talked about. He just stopped calling people; stopped answering his phone. He didn’t have long, unkempt hair or out of control fingernails, but the sound of his own voice had become so foreign, so he stopped using it altogether. His heart was a broken house, paint peeling, shutters gone. Looking out from behind tattered curtains, he sat at his desk and watched as people walked by his office, never noticing the dead man that waved out at them from behind a painted smile.