Other stories for this prompt

It wasn't my fault. It couldn't have been. She was dead when I got there.

I know my fingerprints were on the gun. It was my gun, of course my fingerprints were on it. Yes, I was the last one to see her alive. But that was hours before she died. I do stand to inherit a large sum of money. I loved her. Why would I kill her over something like that?

The CCTV could easily have been doctored. Besides, you don't see the killer's face. It must be a coincidence that she and I have the same build....

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"This is your fault," his wife said to him. If you would just put your mother in her place I wouldn't have to and we wouldn't be fighting right now.
He replied loudly, "My fault? How is it my fault she's nosy? She doesn't mean anything by it anyway. You don't have to be such a bitch about every little thing."
"Oh. My. God. Seriously?" She was on a roll now. "It's your fault she's so nosy because you never say anything at all to her when she crosses a line. And once again, I wouldn't have to be such...

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Such a familiar word.
Im not sure what it means and what it looks like but i can feel it.
I feel it for a long time since i can't remember.
I feel it brings heavy and pain.

People see me, im nervous.
Their pain eyes.
Their sorry eyes.
Their cynical eyes.
Their fellow eyes.

I'm going home.
I look in the mirror to find what people saw in me.
I can't get anything.
Ok, im going to sleep.


I wake up.
Remembering that last night i dreamt of my Mom wrote my middle name; Lauft, for hundred...

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Fault. It is so common a word. Used by so many to allay the suspicion that they are truly the ones responsible. And who am I? I am no different.

My leg moved as if in a dream, gliding through time and space like it was made of water, no jelly, no gravity. It moved, ever so slowly towards a destination that I couldn't help but be brought to. Call it fate, call it fault call it whatever you will but in the end that is where I ended up. One foot in the street and another on the sidewalk....

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Fault. Always so unclear.

Perhaps the fault was mine. Perhaps I shouldn't have pushed so hard. All I wanted was a taste. Just a glimpse of what she was thinking. Was I really in the wrong for that?

"Look. Just... Tell me what's wrong."

"I don't want to."

Obstinate. Here I am, just trying to figure out what's wrong with her or if she's okay and she doesn't want to share with me.

"You know you can tell me."

"I can't."

"I'm not going to judge you for anything, you know."

A shrug. Too bad, she's saying to me. You...

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It wasn't mine. Maybe I lost the idea of whose fault it was when the map flew over the side of the ferry. Yes, it started to rain, and yes, it was I who had forgotten the umbrella at home, but it didn't matter, Damn it. We were going to have an excellent time, through no fault of my own.

The day went off as uneventful. We disembarked, walked along the road through town to a nice shanty-like restaurant on the water. We could look out over the marina and the moored vessels and smell the brine and brackish...

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It wasn't mine. It wasn't his. I'm not sure it was anyone's, really.

I think it considered itself its own fault, kind of a Frank Sinatra "I did it my way," "I'm my own man" sort of thing. No one was going to tell it what to do or when it was allowed to slip, and how much. If it wanted to let off little 3.5s every couple of months, it would, and if it decided to store up for a 9.9, that was its own business!

And I figured it wasn't really my business to interfere. I would've...

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The window?

The guardrail that gave way?

The father who opened the window earlier?

The mother who moved the ottoman too close to the window?

The gate that inexplicably stopped being baby-proof that night?

The nanny who ran into the other room to grab his bottle?

The parents who were away at a colleague's baby shower?

The decision to buy an apartment on the 15th floor?

The gusty winds that day?

The decision to go to the party?

The invite?

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Fault. Not a good word. Not a pleasant word. It conjures up the idea of blame. If someone’s at fault, someone’s to blame. The same thing.

Plus it makes me think of faulty. Broken. Useless.

Like you, really. It’s your fault. You’re faulty. It’s not me, it’s you.

I can tell you now I never appreciated the blank stares, the monosyllables, the selfishness, the way you sit there every morning drinking your coffee and reading your paper, or tapping away at your laptop, or doing whatever it is you do with your phone. Facebook, maybe? Or are you on Twitter?...

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Fault. Whose was it? Lying on the ground like that. Cracks spreading out, damaging everything it touched. No one wanted it. It had to be dumped somewhere, though.

Suddenly, it seemed like the world shifted. The fault shifted, heading towards me. It opened up, and swallowed me whole. I fell into the abyss. Doubt and shame fell on me. I could have avoided it. Easily, too.

I fell and fell. The further I got, the more afraid I grew. The light above me shrank. I thought I could see people above, shaking their heads at me.

I spent so much...

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About the prompt

Originally displayed on:
May 18, 2011


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