I couldn't sleep with her next to me. So cold. Her skin. I had to pretend she was still alive. There was no way that I could imagine she was no longer going to be waking me up with her laugh, kissing me when I refuse to get up for the alarm, tickling me when I roll back on my side and try and get a few more moments in bed, before the inevitable morning routine for work.

She was lying on her back, no longer looking at the mirrored ceiling, but deep in her thoughts. I convinced myself they would be of me, the children, her work. She was, no I mean, she is an artist. Portraits. In oils. So brilliant she is. Royal Academy.

A thought tries to enter my brain but I push it away, but it perseveres. She is no longer as soft as before.

She is so cold.

What am I going to do?


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Anglea (joined almost 12 years ago)

Six minute story is brilliant as a daily mental excercise to write on a variety of topics. It involves a lot of trial and error before I finish in the given time.

I am often surprised which of my stories receive the most views, often those I planned to delete.

COPYRIGHT - please contact me in advance via a recent story page if you wish to use my stories in anyway.

A digital animation has been made from one of my stories





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I couldn't sleep with her next to me.
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