A Thursday Response to Wednesdays Writing Prompt:
One.
Shaking hands—a trembling finger
Resting lightly on the trigger
A second passes in a hundred years
Blood-drums pounding in your ears
Two.
Bead of sweat trickling down your brow
Sneering lips—you’ve got her now
Heat in your chest a rising fire
Vicious sensation of vengeful desire
Three.
Eyes open wide and cold with fear
The face of someone you held dear
A chance was given—she did not move
And now you’re left with something to prove.
Shaking hands—a trembling finger
Presses lightly on the trigger
Noise and smoke and shock pulls back
Eyes clenched shut turns vision black.
And silence comes, and hovers there
In tiny whispers a three-word prayer—
Three.
Two.
One.
But a deed like that can’t be undone.
It’s over now, you’ve made your bed.
The song has ended—the singer’s dead.
The Rookery 