The Fade

There is no warning rattle at the door. No scent of myrtle creeps through the keyhole to signal the approach of magic or increase the wild thumping of a solitary heart. There is no dimming sense of the light going, no cloying surge of terrified spittle surging upward.

There is just The Fade.

She is tired of the struggle and finds the Fade more and more comforting each time it comes. HE tells her not to give way to it, to fight, to hope for more. But he is not here now. And the Fade is. She lies back into its grasp and exhales gratefully.

It is a very long time before she inhales again.

But finally she does, and blinks and swallows and notices for the first time the little female jaybird who peers through her window past the Valentine heart. She thinks a bird looking in the window portends bad luck. She knows that a Valentine heart does.

bird-heart-825x350He would not agree of course. Lately they never seem to agree on anything. Lately they never even seem to talk.

Is there any reason to try a bit longer? Is there even a chance of more? Or is it finally time to give way to the inevitable dance among the ruins?

She does not know. He is not here. She is listening for a rattle at the door.

Written for Zero to Hero, Day 22: Try (Another) Blog Event. I chose the Yeah Write Speakeasy Fiction Challenge from prompts provided here.


26 thoughts on “The Fade

  1. Ooooh, this is good. That first paragraph is enticing, mirroring the effects of the Fade. Sounds like morphine. ๐Ÿ˜‰

      1. Meth. We have meth in Pigspittle. And, apparently, heroin these days. Sad. Are we neighbors? The closest city from here is Columbus.

      1. You are too kind.
        P.S thanks for the Question – you weren’t late, I stuffed up the dates, so your question is on track for this Saturday ๐Ÿ™‚

      2. Oh good! I have found a great photo to go with but can’t figure out how to add it to post. There doesn’t seem to be a “Media” choice on the dashboard I see for your blog. Any ideas?

  2. This piece also resonates with me…gives me the chills.

    “No scent of myrtle creeps through the keyhole to signal the approach of magic or increase the wild thumping of a solitary heart.”

    You create a wonderful picture of what it’s like to feel a specific kind of anxious.

      1. Beautiful isn’t it? The photographer is Matt Molloy, he takes time lapse photographs then “stacks” them with Photoshop. His credit is in my sidebar; I haven’t quite got linking figured out yet but you could just google him ๐Ÿ™‚

    1. Ah, someone else who may have spent every February in grade school cutting out red construction paper hearts with blunt scissors! I should have known that from your lovely poem ๐Ÿ™‚ I tried to comment on your blog but couldn’t seem to get past the security measures to do so. But I enjoyed your piece, especially “The knowledge that it makes a noise like a freight train, or whispers like a thousand trees swaying in the wind,” So good!

      1. Thank you ๐Ÿ™‚ And I hated those blunt scissors! I wonder why my blog wouldn’t let you comment. I know people sometimes have trouble commenting if they’re using their phones. Hmmm, I’ll have to check out my security settings – that is if I can figure out how to do that. I am a total disaster when it comes to technology. xo

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