Hope is such a strange word, it rhymes with elope. That’s apt.
But waiting rhymes with hating. Delay and dismay.
I pick lint from the collar of my jacket pretending to read poetry.
I breathe, in-out, one, two, three.
“United flight 5094 is ready to board.”
Don’t look too eager, neither to passive. Boarding pass,ready (slightly moist from my thumbing).
A hand on my shoulder. My heart rollercoasting.
“Excuse me, you forgot your book”.
She has green eyes, not like an agent. I manage a smile.
It’s almost pity; but C-4 is nondiscriminatory and everyone’s mortal.
I wrote a post that I was not too happy with the last time, so this time I wrote something entirely different. Getting into the head of a terrorist is not that easy, but I guess they are nervous too.
Friday Fictioneers is run by Rochelle, and each week we write stories to the same picture. Hundred words is a target I always try to meet exactly so it takes a slight amount of trimming.
June 22, 2016