
I’ve lost track. How long have I been here? Days? Weeks? Months? Could it be years? I don’t know.
But does it matter anymore?
Is this a prison I’m in? An asylum of some sort? Did I commit a crime? Am I insane? I don’t remember why I’m here.
But does it matter anymore?
I don’t even know where I am, as I have no recollection of how I got here. or even where I’m from.
But does it matter anymore?
My name. What is it? I don’t seem to know my name or who I am.
But does it matter anymore?
I see people through the small porthole, beyond the bars. I call out to them, but they don’t hear me. Or choose to ignore me.
But does it matter anymore?
Am I Dead? Am I a ghost? Is this Hell?
It doesn’t matter anymore.
Written for Roger Shipp’s Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner. Photo credit: Dynamic Wang on Unsplash.
Liked this Fandango.
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Thanks, Di.
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Wow, this is so evocative
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I saw the window as a cell of isolation and despair.
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Excellent take Fandango
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Thanks, Sadje.
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You’re welcome
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Good one Fandango 🙂
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Thanks, Brian.
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Reminds me of the Prisoner TV series, just a bit.
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I remember that show, but only barely.
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This is great, I love this story.
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Thanks. I appreciate that.
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You really captured how I immediately saw this prompt, but the way you went about it is haunting to me in a good way. Lovely job!
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Thanks for your very kind words. I’m pleased that you liked it.
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I really like how your wrote this. Never too long of one thought, jumping to the next, looking for anyone, alone… it was very much like anxiety.
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Thanks.
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You’re welcome.
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