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He hadn’t meant to stop. Hadn’t meant to peer through that clear pane of glass into the cozy lounge with its smouldering log fire, twin siamese cats sleeping on a mat that hinted at Persian origins and the two pajama-clad kids sprawled out and captivated by a wide-screen TV. He certainly hadn’t meant to catch a glimpse of the couple entwined on the sofa, each one’s arms holding the other in an embrace that could show Venus love’s true meaning. The last thing he’d wanted to do was stare momentarily at the handsome man with his greying temples and intelligent eyes or gaze longingly at the laughing woman, her tightly-curled hair spilling over shoulders resting so tenderly against her lover’s chest.

Ricky Maine had meant to keep walking, head bowed against the icy November rain. He’d meant to walk until he reached the Painter’s Arms and meet his old comrades. He’d wanted to do nothing but drink and talk about the good old days. About the army life he’d hated to leave after taking that bullet in Afganistahn. He’d wanted to meet his cronies and chat about the old days and about how he hated Civvie street. How the lack of excitment was killing him. How he needed that danger.

He hadn’t meant to feel anything, had never wanted to feel anything. Would have been happy to stay numb and empty and untouchable.

He hated the fact, as his blue eye met her green and that spike of pain, old and rusted and forgotten, slid quietly across two decades and buried itself neatly betwen his ribs. The warm tear that burned with remembered loss across his cheek was unwelcome, unlike the smile of recognition in those jade green eyes.

And Ricky Maine hated his reaction with his entire being. He hated the bone sickness that swallowed him as he walked, as he replayed that aching moment twenty years ago. As he ran to the company of his army buddies.

His boots splashing through freezing puddles, Ricky Maine hated himself, hated the world. Most of all he hated the only thing he had ever feared had been only thing he ever truly, so wholely loved.


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Comments

The following comments are for "Glass"
by Jimmer

Glass
Jim,

An interesting little snip-it here. Normally, I've got nothing to say when it comes to your work. You're such a talented story teller, I really enjoy your flash fiction and short stories. However, with this piece, while you did a good job of capturing this moment in time, I think it needs a bit of expansion. There's definitely more here, and knowing your work thus far, I'd say that it would be great. Just my thoughts, a good piece either way.

Dave

( Posted by: HeRoCoMpLeX [Member] On: January 12, 2012 )

Hero
Hi Dave,

To be honest, this one's a couple years old. If I recall correctly, it's based on something from a prompts-for-writers book.

Thanks for the feed back though, your thoughts are always appreciated.

Jim

( Posted by: Jimmer [Member] On: January 12, 2012 )





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