A short prompt for this Monday morning, not feeling especially motivated to get writing done. Maybe it’s because of the holidays, or work sometimes just sucks. I’ll get back to being a “writer” soon.
He looked over the sun-drenched hills and knew. He knew that he would no longer look at the light, or the hills this way. The sun rose for the final time.
It touched the trees, brightening the new spring leaves, wandered through delicate blades of grass, and wove its self into the softness of the wind. It touched a quiet brook, the rays of light spreading into the water, almost glowing with the new day. A bird song echoed over the rolling land, another answered.
He knew this was the last time he would look at the hills, the trees, the last time he would hear the birds call to each other. This would be the last time the sun would rise for him.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, it came away wet. He had tried hard, so hard to stay. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. They always found a way to take, to contain, to keep.
The sun kept rising, spreading warmth across his face, soaking into his clothes. He savored it, knowing this was the last time. He tried detail each little thing, each little piece of the morning, but knew it wouldn’t last.
Not even the brightest memory would stay lit in the darkness to come.