Pulse 17


Sitting tight in this chamber, I consider my role.  It’s inevitable.  No blame’s attached; not to you for inviting me here, under duress; not to me for the consummation.

Awkward silence; I hear your pulse go – 15, 16 times.  I hear the click, click of emptiness; another moment passing by, adding its weight to the other hollow moments.

I sense the tang of perspiration, tang of stale relief.  I sense eternities of impatience.

Next round – I count your pulse: 15, 16… at 17, combustion.  Thoughts blossom up the wall.

I’m glad we kept our appointment, glad we shared it all.  I’m sorry about the mess of Russian roulette.


This piece of flash fiction was written in response to the Photo Challenge #34 “Wrap” at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie, where all stories in the link-up were prompted by the picture by Januz Miralles at the top of this post.