The Old Windmill
I sat on the bench and gripped the top of the backrest with outstretched arms, exploring the texture of the rugged wood and absentmindedly feeling for splinters.
I turned my attention to the leaves, rustled by the warm, moist autumn breeze and gazed at the old windmill.
In a sort of Film Noir moment, my darling, I fantasized stringing the bastard to the sails and using him as target practice each time he came around.
But I took good care of your murderer as soon as my anger overcame the grief of losing you and anyway, the sails of the windmill stopped turning long ago.
But you weren’t the only victim, my love, and that helped everybody to believe it was an accident.
Nobody really cares, but I can always read the truth in their eyes as they sympathetically smile and mumble empty platitudes.
I look back to the windmill, searching for some sort of sign.
But the sails are as rigidly immobile as my life without you.
Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers is a weekly challenge set by Priceless Joy and I always look forward to discovering the prompt (provided this week and © by TJ Paris), and writing my entry.