Saturday Prompt

Your limit: 200 words.

Your prompt: The fingers on the windowpane…


10 Replies to “Saturday Prompt”

  1. God. It seemed so real. How could it not be real?
    Etta pushed the hair from her eyes and turned towards the clock on the nightstand. 4:47 am. Silent house like all the other empty-silent nights since it happened.
    Flinging the covers off, the biting cold hit her legs as she felt her way to the kitchen. She put the carton to her lips and swallowed the bitter juice while thinking back through the facts.
    He was dead. That was certain. He wasn’t coming back.
    Ever. So why these vivid dreams? He’s outside waiting. Just standing there.
    But this time he’d come right up to the glass with that sweet-sappy smile, like when they were kids. He reached out to her just as she woke up.
    I’m losing it. That’s all there is to it. Losing my fucking mind.
    Back in her room with the juice carton still dangling in her grip she walked to the window, just to look. Just to torture herself a little. The carton hit the wood floor spilling over her bare feet.
    There, on the winter frosted glass were the clear prints of fingers on the window pane.

  2. The fingers on the window pane

    For years little Johnny had nightmares of demons and monsters trying to climb in through his window at night and get him, in these dreams he could always hear their claws scratching against the glass.
    Over the years these nightmares started to take a toll on Johnny in his waking life as he got older he started to get more and more paranoid suffering from constant bouts of anxiety but the worst of these symptoms was the almost psychotic like panic attacks were little Johnny lash out in paranoid fuelled rages at some perceived threat that only he was aware of.
    Now little Johnny’s parents were not heartless or blind to these radical changes in their son and had been sending their son to a psychologist ever since the nightmares become a constant reoccurring thing trying every drug available to find some relief for their son, they also turned their house into a kind of fort Knox employing every security measure available but still the nightmares continued.
    Even little Johnny now 16 tried making mini high powered finger traps in shop class to help give peace of mind placing them on the window sill.

    (Sorry needed more words to concluded little Johnny’s story)

  3. The fingers on the windowpane are mine. My hand is numb and it doesn’t feel like it belongs to me. My mind is lost in a grief so deep, that I’m barely aware if I’m standing or falling.

    When I woke this morning, I would never have thought that this day would leave me wounded and bleeding emotionally. Everything since early May portended that this moment would come, but I chose to ignore it. It’s not hard to ignore the blackness of cancer, even if you acknowledge it, it’s easy to pretend that all will work out. The meds will make it all better, remission is a promise..on the wind with wings.
    Reality has a way of settling into my skin, bones and leeching into my heart and sometimes it’s hard to breathe. I can’t imagine a future without you, it’s terrifying. I keep the reality of what’s happening buried most of the time, but at night when I can’t fall asleep, I listen to you as you breathe and snore. My mind plays out scenarios like dress rehearsals. There is no rationale, there is only a visceral grief waiting to break free.

    My fingers on the windowpane are bleeding.

  4. It wasn’t that I was particularly fond of Donal. He was irritating and he just would not stop touching things! But I suppose he didn’t really deserve what happened. Did I overreact? Perhaps. But I had just washed those damn windows and he walked into the room and started putting his fingers on the windowpane! Why???

    So when I arranged the “accident” I felt justified. He was helping in the kitchen. I’d just asked him to hand me the turkey breast after he’d circled the kitchen touching counters, cabinets, utenesils… I winced at every tap. The oven timer was set to go off extra loud. I had to time it right. I chopped the pork before me rhythmically, counting in my head. The breast entered my peripheral vision and I raised my arm…and the alarm didn’t go off! Had I set it wrong? Miscounted? I sighed and was about to accept the offered meat when the alarm blasted across the kitchen, a terrifying, apocalyptic buzz. We both jumped, I recovered, shifted my weight, and pretended distraction as I slammed the knife down across his knuckles.

    I really expected more blood. Too bad they could never find the index finger.

  5. The fingers on the windowpane press their tips against the chill-frosted surface, the heat from the fleshy ovals melting smudges and whorls into the thin layer of ice on the glass. But only slightly, now, since his fingertips were almost as cold as the window.

    He should have listened to his sixth sense, the inner voice whispering, “Don’t do it.” Then the more insistent alarm klaxons in his mind. But it had been so long since anything pretty had paid him any mind, that when she beckoned… not just with her black-taloned finger, but with her flirty smile and her dangerous eyes and her voluptuous breasts. With her whole body, she ensnared him and led him where she wanted him.

    Which happened to be the freezer. He was so screwed. And not in the good way.

  6. The fingers on the windowpane weren’t attached to a hand.
    I had a pretty good idea to whom they belonged, though, and while I appreciated the sentiment, I wasn’t sure about leaving them as window decor.
    On the other hand, this window faced the fenced back yard, so maybe it wouldn’t be a problem.
    I could always shift the potted ficus a couple of inches.
    I’m sure the crows and ants will eventually get to work.
    It was a wonderful summer morning with a light breeze.
    I did a couple of stretches and wandered off to the kitchen for that first best coffee of the day.
    I was smiling. That felt good because it doesn’t happen very often.

  7. I set my fingertips up to the glass, where a moonlight beam flows from one side of the smudged window to the other, picks up again and flows across, as the car drives into the night. We move through the summer’s dark, the humidity so heavy only constant motion grants escape. My sister is unseen and silent at the far side of the wide back seat, probably glancing out her window too. No radio, no AC, no streetlights. I can hear crickets out across the fields and ditches full of cattails. Air breezes through the car, over my father driving, my mother in the passenger seat. I’ve lost all sense of direction on the country roads, I’m unsure if my parents have a destination, but the moon reaches out to find me and my half-open window, again, sweeping across, again.

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