Astrid had started sleeping with an open window since the curfew started. The city was silent, except for an occasional growl from nocturnal wildlife marking their new territory.
Over the rooftops, she sees the stars she remembers from her country-side childhood.
She had prepared for everything but this ache of loneliness. Her pantry was still stocked with food; she had water but one by one her neighbors had vanished.
The pandemic patrols carry IR-visors to detect footprints of fever; they eaves-drops at doors for signs of coughs or labored breathing,
As the shadow swallowed the stars Astrid starts to cough.
You are probably tired of yet another story on plagues and pandemic, but I couldn’t refrain.
Friday fictioneers are a bunch of bloggers writing flash fictions to the same picture every week. A hundred words The limit is a hundred words, and I usually try to match that exactly. Rochelle hosts and often shares a piece of history in her stories. Go to her site or click at the frog below for more stories.
April 15, 2020