No One Plays Here Anymore

It was summer and no one played here anymore — not like they used to. Gangs had decamped to hot street corners, waiting, straddled on bikes, to upheave convenience stores two at a time; they ambled aimlessly with digital appendages, and conversed on kerbsides, abbreviating their emotions with rapid fingers; or else they obliterated boredom with drink and rage until the rage imploded and touched someone else’s life. After they had stalked him from a distance, the exorcism of boredom was filmed, uploaded, and soundtrack with rallying calls of joy and laughter; Keith’s unread newspaper had escaped its own folds and lay like loose sheets soaking his life away — turning his memory into another story; senselessly everything blackened, Keith’s world silenced itself as the sun continued to shine and the birds sing in the park where no one played.

© 2017 The Wasted Love Song
In response to: Three Line Tales, Week 73
Image by: Christian Widell


Many thanks to Sonya for organising Three Line Tales.

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