Nineteen chairs, unoccupied, scattered unceremoniously amid the unkept grass.
The backdrop of power lines hung forlornly in the distance.
Who had painstakingly climbed, to carry them to this isolated stretch of hill?
Why in fact were they placed in such an erratic manner, neither lined, or doubled in rows as if to witness a performance, a ceremony?
What was the reason for their presence, old and hardened wood, that afforded no comfort?
He stood looking out to the hill beyond, waiting for the clouds to withdraw into the blackness.
One by one, he watched them slowly walk, to take their place in order.
Silent, mere shadows of themselves, the saddened faces passed each other, to take their seats as they had done every year for the last 20 years.
The chairs were once again occupied.
Those that worked the power lines, those that didn’t survive.
145 words. I so wanted to continue my story from last week, however the era was not right to do so.
Each week the amazing Anonymous Legacy posts a photo – the story to be 150 or less.