Anthony looked down at the tiny version of his Thomas. Barely out of #kindergarten, he was the cutest thing he’d ever seen. The time ring vibrated, letting him know he’d be leaving imminently. But not before Anthony could wonder what had happened to those glorious curls.
The #armada left a burning village in it’s wake. At the centre of their fleet the last witch of the destroyed coven was caged & bound. Trapped, or so they thought. In binding her, they had drawn blood. All she had to do was form it into a sigil and bind her time.
Every bit of his life was #organised to the last second. With people pulling and corralling and demanding, he couldn’t even piss in peace. When a blue police box appeared he knew he’d finally cracked. But he accepted the hand that appeared from within, tugging him inside.
Brown leaves, curled and crisp
Whisper when the wind blows through
Calling out my name.
#Short words followed long silences. The frustration palpable in the air. Cloying and suffocating.
“Are you going to take your go or not?” He asked.
She scowled, rearranging the letters on her rack for the umpteenth time. “I fucking hate scrabble.”
She stumbled across a #stork. It’s life long gone, hers would be too if anyone found her standing over it like this. Hearing voices, she panicked and took off into the long grass. The blood on her tunic would mark her as guilty in their eyes.