Fantasy Stream

The Stream

The churning and gurgling as the rushing stream swept over the rocks. Bees danced merrily among the wildflowers tickling the surface of the water. Ever flowing, ever changing, the stream moved on through the seasons. A shout disturbed the tranquil scenery. Voices rose out of the chattering of the birds and the crashing of the water against the rocks. Time watched on indifferently, dragged the voices further and further towards the stream. Coward. A scream breaks through the silence like a gunshot. Traitor. Even the trees dancing in the gentle breeze stop to listen. Wicked. Cruel. Blood poisoned the clear water, penetrated the pure heart of nature, tainted the joyful land with pain. A silence. Then a gentle sobbing emerged out of the bushes. For what was lost was lost, and what was done can never be undone. Time travelled, pulling the stream with it, and in time the moment was forgotten, as brief as a flash of lightning, a clap of thunder. Almost unnoticeable in the vast expanse of time. But one man remembered, and always would.

One moment, in a room, walls tinted grey by the shadow of the darkening sky, remembered forever, by only one, the man sitting in the room, alone. Watching the clouds sink lower, burdened by his past, the rain on the windows pounding fiercely. Looking back at what could have been, but for the sorrowful memory of the death by the stream. The years move on, indifferent to the man clawing at the reigns by which time cannot be held. His mind is scarred but strong, the joy and the happiness cannot seep through the cracks. He will not let himself be forgiven for what he did, and tries to bear the tremendous guilt as one more burden he must carry. For what is lost is lost, and what was done can never be undone.

I stand at the edge, trembling, falling, regretting, seeing the man above me looking down from the roof, snarling, grinning, one life gone, one match extinguished.

Tears streak down their faces, the friends he still had, those who knew the truth. Time was cruel, watching with no care of the man and his fate. The trees stood still and solemn, knowing one day this tragedy would be nothing but a tale they had to tell.

That day by the stream, one was not killed by the other’s weapon, but fell by his own pretence. Struck by insanity, the one who believed himself guilty, took his life in payment. But as he fell, he saw the friend he once thought dead, watching his demise with glee. The Earth could only watch, for what is lost is lost, and what is done can never be undone.

That was a few extracts of flash fiction I wrote, which altogether make a short story. I hope you enjoyed reading it!

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