Dice Man
How do you fix a blunder of global proportions?
Life was good. Fine wine and dry shelter. Camaraderie so great that we would happily die for each other.
Now I sit and roll the dice in my palms pitted with callouses and scars – wounds inflicted by others, and shamefully, by myself. I feel the dice indentions like dimples on my soul, without looking I know their smooth surface, once pure and perfect, is blood-stained now.
Once a warrior of fearsome reputation, I have become a front, an elaborate façade of confidence layered on shame and self-doubt. Every decision I make through close fists. Dice rolled where others can’t see them.
I watched the twisted thorns. Shrapnel in extremities. The mocking sign above the place of the skull.
We wanted souvenirs. I rolled my dice. Not sure why, it was just another day. Just another event.
I have no idea if he is what they say. The point is they believe.
They say he’s back. He could be anyone I meet. The servant? The leper? The strangers who seem to accuse me with judging eyes?
Perhaps the items are cursed?
Now they call from the bitter desert sands where I hastily buried my fabric secrets.
via Flash! Friday: Vol 3 – 17 | Flash! Friday.
It was Good Friday when I did this and I found this one incredibly difficult to write. It didn’t get any recognition as other folk after me posted similar themes. But, some stories just affect you more than others.
Metropolitan Dreams 