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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write. Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground. Kiya's gift. I love it!
Everyday Canvas
#925089 added December 8, 2017 at 11:39pm
Restrictions: None
Such a Shame!
Prompt: "Such a shame. That boy had such promise." Shaking her head, she remembered some of the times she'd seen him...

===============


"Such a shame. That boy had such promise." Shaking her head, she remembered some of the times she'd seen him jump into his snowmobile and time travel to centuries ahead and return safely.

She was just getting ready to go after him when she spotted his snowmobile curving around the satellite receivers. He had returned, walking out of the shadows, again.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t know where the time went, although I wasn’t far away. I was actually only 13 years into the future where I met your future self. That is why I am late getting back.”

“You did? What will I look like, then?” she closed her eyes and imagined the wind ruffling her then-grayed hair in a fully matured face. She would probably look more alluring with age.

“Actually,” he swallowed his next breath. “You will be on your death bed. I tried to save you, but it was of no use.”

Oh, that fear of death! It always arose when she was mentally and physically frail, and the slightest ailment could make her worry, but then wasn’t life a matter of luck? “You’re making this up, aren’t you? I don’t believe you, and I am not going to die when I am 53. That is just too early,” she said, staring at him, wondering.

He shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “If you don’t believe me, don’t believe me,” and he stretched his arms and as if wanting to hug her, but didn’t. Instead, he hopped on his snowmobile again and zigzagged into a distant fog.

“Don’t go,” she yelled after him. “That is the wrong direction. That wormhole eats up everything.”

But he didn’t hear her. Clearly, his life was about to end, since all his fears had evaporated.

At least she had thirteen more years to go, and she had a lingering attachment to a life of value. Her own life.

“Such a shame,” she said again. “That boy had such promise.”

© Copyright 2017 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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