Shadows on the Wall

The fire rages and the timbers fall. Ash and smoke and glowing filaments twist into the sky and disappear. A distant siren wails.

In the yard, my curved shadow stands long upon the ground. Never have I felt such heat, nor such freedom – nor such aching, terrible guilt. I fear I am a sick man.

They say every story has been written and, by that token, every life (for what is a life if not a story) has already been lived. Specific joys, specific tragedies – these change – but the basic arc of any one life, the skeleton beneath it all, is nothing more than a copy of some ancient form.

Who lived that original life, I wonder—the archetype and anticipation of my own? Was it Adam or Eve? Cain or Abel? Or was it some proto human, shivering in a cave by a tiny fire, imagining in the shadows cast upon the wall some strange reflection of his own life? Some comforting vision?

Well… I have built a fire, and I see the shadows, but I feel no comfort.

Even sin is a cliché.

I swear I’m a well-adjusted individual, yet somehow I continue to churn out these dark, depressing responses to the Trifecta Writing Challenge!

This week the prompt was Anticipation, the third definition of which is somewhat formal: a : visualization of a future event or state b : an object or form that anticipates a later type.

Next week can the prompt be ‘puppies’ or something? Please? I’m fairly certain I couldn’t twist that to the dark side.

Anyway, leave your comments, criticism, and therapists’ phone numbers below!