By Charles Prelle
From the Latin obīre, meaning a “going toward” one’s death.
This strange going toward. A suggestion of movement, of searching. And when I find you, I’m almost relieved to see no mention of me. A life redacted, another misquote. But this is their version of you. Our going toward is penned in different ink. I sever your name from the paper and stitch it to my heart, the remains of strangers blackening my fingertips. Secretaries, stockbrokers, social workers, salesmen, CEOs, civil servants, carpenters, cab drivers, truck drivers, hairdressers, doctors, doormen, delivery men, dreamers. Dead. All of them.
Charles Prelle is a London based writer and playwright. His short fiction can be found in Retreat West, Ellipsis Zine, Idle Ink, Storgy and Reflex Press among others. He has been listed in various flash competitions and published anthologies. Find him on Twitter @CharlesPrelle or on his website cprellewriter.wordpress.com