Frankenstein Nov 12, 2006 |
He had stretched his hands towards eternity. But since the road to eternity is through time, his hand aged. Ever since he was known as a man with senile hands.
One of her tears was lost in those hands. And yet, the smell remained. The sober smell of the garden of grapes. That drop of tear turned old in his hand.
Women afraid of age died in his hands but never left a tear in his hands, ever again.
One of her tears was lost in those hands. And yet, the smell remained. The sober smell of the garden of grapes. That drop of tear turned old in his hand.
Women afraid of age died in his hands but never left a tear in his hands, ever again.
Labels: eternity, fear, fiction, flash fiction, hands, short story, story, surreal, tear, time
