The Alley

The alley was a place most city dwellers avoided, a narrow passage between buildings where even the daylight seemed reluctant to enter. A man in a heavy coat walked alone, his footsteps echoing off the walls He carried a briefcase that looked more like it contained his life’s secrets than any work documents. The single street light overhead flickered, making his shadow jump against the walls as if it were trying to break free.

The paint on the walls was chipped, the air smelled musty, and the only sound besides the man’s footsteps was the occasional drip of water. This was a part of the city that felt stuck in time, ignored and uncared for, much like the man himself appeared to be.

A stray cat, its eyes reflecting the dim light, watched him go by without moving. It was the only other living thing that seemed to acknowledge this person presence.

The man didn’t seem to belong to the modern city that buzzed beyond the alley. He moved with a purpose, yet it was as if he was walking through a different era, invisible to everyone but the cat.

As he reached the end of the alley, the man stopped for a moment and looked back. His shadow seemed to cling a second longer to the ground before he turned the corner and disappeared, leaving the alley to the silence and the watchful eyes of the cat.

The Waiting Room

In the sterile hum of the waiting room, I find myself perched on the edge of a too-hard plastic chair, the kind that makes you wish for anything softer. Around me, the air is thick with the antiseptic tang that hospitals specialise in, mixed with the undercurrent of worry that seems to be everyone’s unwanted companion. The magazine in my lap lies forgotten, its pages filled with the promise of distraction I no longer have the heart to seek.

I’m not sure when this place, with its flickering fluorescent lights and the relentless tick of the clock, became a regular fixture in my life. It seems like only yesterday that I was on the outside, glancing in through its windows with a mix of curiosity and detachment. Now, here I sit, a fixture as much as the chairs and the potted plants, waiting.

The faces around me are a blur of stories untold. Each person carries their own burden, their own reasons for being here. And yet, in this moment, we share a commonality—a thread of understanding that binds us together in silent solidarity. We are all waiting. Waiting for news, for answers, for a reprieve.

I can’t help but think back to a time when the biggest decision I had to make was what to cook for dinner or which film to watch on a Friday night. Now, those mundane choices seem like luxuries, taken for granted in a life that was once filled with so much simplicity it almost seemed dull.

My mind drifts to him, to the reason I sit here today. It’s funny, isn’t it? How quickly our priorities can shift, how the ground beneath us can just give way, leaving us scrambling for something—anything—to hold onto. He’s my rock, my reason, and now, as I wait for the door to open and for a face to emerge with news I’m both desperate and terrified to hear, I realise just how much of my world revolves around his orbit.

The waiting is the hardest part—the not knowing. It’s a limbo of sorts, a purgatory where hope and fear dance a delicate tango, each step measured, each breath held. I find myself bargaining with God, promising anything, everything, if only for a favourable outcome.

I glance at the clock again, its hands mocking me with their steady progression. Time, it seems, has a cruel sense of humour, moving both too swiftly and too slowly all at once. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and muster the semblance of calm. I have to be strong, for him, for us.

Because that’s what you do when you love someone. You wait, you hope, and you hold onto the flicker of light in the darkness, no matter how faint it may seem. And you believe, with every fibre of your being, that somehow, someway, everything will be alright.

So here I sit, in the waiting room, surrounded by strangers yet feeling more connected to them than ever before. We are all warriors in our own right, fighting battles unseen, holding onto hope as our shield. And as the door finally opens, my heart skips a beat, ready for whatever comes next.

A Haven For The Aged

They say this place is home, a haven for the aged. But to me, it’s a prison painted in pastel hues, where every day is a monotony, and every meal tastes of longing for the past. They plucked me from my garden, my sanctuary, where time was marked by seasons, not by pills and schedules. Here, walls whisper pity in the silence, and faces blur into a sea of forgotten stories.

I never thought I’d end my days in a place like this, a repository for the once-loved. They visit, yes, but their eyes betray the truth—they wish to be anywhere but here. They see not the man I was but the burden I’ve become.

And yet, there’s an oddity in my tale, a peculiar twist. At night, when the world sleeps, and this place holds its breath, the walls… they speak. Not in the pitiful whispers of the day, but in clear, vibrant tones of life and memories. They recount tales not of my life, but of others long forgotten, tales that no living soul could remember.

At first, I thought it madness, a trick of an old mind. But then, the truths they spoke, the secrets of the past they revealed, were too precise, too real to be the fancy of senility.

What eerie sorcery this is, I cannot say. But these walls hold souls within them, and at night, I listen to the voices of the past, sharing in their laughter, their sorrow, their lives. In my isolation, I’ve found a bizarre companionship. It’s as if this place, this care home I so despise, is alive with the echoes of those who once were.

And so, I wait for the night, for the moment when I’m no longer alone. But I cannot shake the chilling thought—what happens when my voice joins theirs? Will a new occupant of this room, years from now, hear my tales, my regrets, whispered in the dark? It’s an eerie comfort, and perhaps, in this unexpected twist, I’ve found my place within these walls.

A 340-word short story.

The End

I remember the laughter. Echoes of it, anyway. Mum’s face, her smile like the rarest of sunbeams in perpetual gloom. But that was another life, before the clouds came to stay. Now, I stand in the wake of a city’s fall, a lone wisp of innocence in a monochrome world. They say kids are resilient, but they don’t know how silence sounds when there’s no one left to break it. How can I dream when the nights are louder than days? They’re gone – everyone. I clutch my old teddy, Mr. Tibbs. “We’ll watch together,” I whisper. “Watch the world end.”

A Drabble – a story told in exactly 100-words.

Master Brewer

In a realm where stars mingled with teapots, Master Brewer Alphonsus worked day and night. His celestial home, a sprawling, steam-powered teapot, was an interstellar marvel. Copper walls shimmered against the cosmic backdrop, its majestic spout casting a warm, golden glow on the floating tea gardens.

Alphonsus was a master of the art of cosmic tea. His brews, infused with stardust, could soothe the most turbulent black hole, make nebulae swirl in delight. Tonight, he concocted a special blend, one that promised to calm the tempest raging in the heart of the Andromeda galaxy.

The universe waited in hushed anticipation.

A Drabble – a story of exactly 100-words.