Writing Prompt No. 12
There’s a voice in the background; a voice singing a gentle quiet song about love.
The hands are young, small, anxious, handling a tissue, they pick and tear at the fine material. The two-ply separates each one thinner then when together. The fibres thin and delicate. The young fingers roll the tissue over and over creating thin rolls that that separate and fall silently to the floor.
The car is quiet. Just a voice singing from the radio. Outside the rain comes down in sheets driving against the windows, trailing across in rivulets obscuring and distorting the view across the bridge. The clouds overhead are close and low. Moisture fills the air. The car wipers move swiftly across the windscreen. Back and forth. Back and forth. One side less efficient, it leaves a thin smear with every wipe.
The young fingers continue to move the pieces of tissue around, through and over. Again and again. The rhythm matches the rain, the wipers, the singing. Everyone stares out of a window. The rain forms narrow rivers that run down the road disappearing into the storm drains alongside. Up ahead is a break in the cloud, a tiny patch of blue appears then disappears as the clouds race across the sky.
Please do share your own stories in the comments below.