Alchera #28: Hope

a white hand is longing
for its eyes to be mirrored
as a candle burns away
in gray swirls of red cinnamon

longing to be mirrored
on eyes which are not yours

but you still think
there is hope

Alchera #27: Niente

"They had nothing to say to each other." That sentence alone is the making of soap opera gold. But you're not going to write a soap opera (unless you really want to). Instead, write a short story using this as the first line.

They had nothing to say to each other.

Her eyes were dry and opaque, her cheeks cracked with wrinkles. She had promised to wait for him forever, just as he had promised to return sooner or later.

The last time they had seen each other seemed like yesterday. He was looking for adventures, for a better life to give her; she knew her only possible future was next to him. However, they weren't mature enough to start their life together: surely there would be more stories to share when they became old and tired if they spent some time away from each other— surely they could build a real friendship that way.

But nothing had happened.

Time slipped away from their aging hands, walking, sitting, eating, breathing— and nothing touched them. Their bodies wandered around, but their spirits remained static, melting away under the acid rain.

And so they came back to their usual corner, empty-handed, empty-headed, and greeted each other with a slight, twisted smile. His eyes were sinking in his face, as if his skin and muscles were quicksand swallowing a pair of putrid olives.

They recognized each other immediately, and they gazed at each other for a long, long time.

And then, feeling the weight of their sorry lives all of a sudden, like the weight of a heavy armor which was never to be used, they nodded slowly, painfully.

They had nothing to say to each other.