This is for "Flash Fiction Friday," which I'm doing because it looks fun and for no other reason. I'm not usually into writing with a prompt, but the picture grabbed me; I'm not sure how good I'll be at keeping it short, or keeping it fiction and not poetry, but I'll just see what comes out. I'm not sure this will be totally what she had in mind but she told me to do what I wanted, so I will. So there. ;)
I stand and gaze at the ancient stones, worn and moss-covered. The building leans, its foundation weakened because it was built on a soft spot and constructed slightly out of true.
Like me, I think.
If the builders had known then how it would look now, would they have picked a different spot to build on? Would they have been more careful in their measurements, in choosing their stones? Or did they not care? Did they only mean the building to be temporary, to be left behind and replaced when they were through and moved on?
I hadn't cared, although I hadn't known what the final damage would be at the time. Sheryl had cared, but she didn't notice the way I leaned or the bogginess of my soul until it was too late.
I bend to tighten my bootlace, then move on.