Rows of warehouses, numbered doors. My train moves by. 41, 42, 43
My mind wanders, I've been stealing its sleep again.
The warehouses pass; 99, 100, 101
And pass; 157, 158, 159
What could be stored in them?

The train rocks gently and I check my phone, 10:01. I'm late, but there's no way to urge the train on. I turn my gaze out again. Still warehouses.

A sudden dread grabs me. Is no one else on this train? The warehouses keep passing. They loom over the train; 784, 785, 786

#UltraShortStory

They had begun building the fence the day before. A manhigh wall of darkwooden panelling now blocked off any view from the right of her garden. She hadn't liked it but had respected her neighbours wishes, suspecting they came partly from her having been found staring out their way too often; lost in thought of course, but staring is staring.

She felt boxed in. Her thoughts unable to wander. But sitting down and letting a pencil do the wandering helped her unbox her mind.

#UltraShortStory

Flicking through an anthology of Richard Brautigan's stories and once again found myself grinning at one of the finest ultra-short stories ever written...

The Scarlatti Tilt

“It’s very hard to live in a studio apartment in San Jose with a man who’s learning to play the violin.” That’s what she told the police when she handed them the empty revolver.

#RichardBrautigan #ScarlattiTilt #UltraShortStory

👇👇👇

RT @Poojawhatever@twitter.com

TW:

"Go back home" they said, "The kids need a father".
She went back.
.
.
.

The kids lost the mother...

#Poojawrites #ultrashortstory