Monday's Fiction in 58

Witching Hour
He moves through the house like a ghost, fingertips brushing picture frames, book spines, knick-knacks in crystal. It’s that time, the darkest portion of night, when most everything is asleep. The quiet resonates like a vibration.
He’s trying to figure out his muddled future, by touching the past.
Yet the clutter will not speak.
He sighs, concentrates.

2 comments:

Marg Smith said...

I have a query?

Do you expect your readers to take on the same challenge as you - as in write in the vein as each day presents on your site or are you responding yourself to some external prompts which then results in what you write? Does my question make sense?

Daily Panic said...

Lonliness captured perfectly.