When the fantastic Kayliegh Malcolm asked who wanted to join her in a monthly prompt thingie I of course waved my hand in the air like I just did not care. I had NO idea what I was going to write on any of it but I wanted to give it a try anyway. There aren’t many rules with this, just, well, she posts a pic and we write a prompt for it. She posted the first picture and I still had no clue, I just went with the emotion I was feeling and here’s what came out (lol not that came out your dirty minded person! lol)
Kincaid walked into his chief’s office and dropped his badge and gun on his desk.
“Caid! Don’t leave like…Caid!”
Kincaid merely lifted a hand to silence the older man and strode out of the station house. He climbed behind the wheels of his older model truck and turned it out of town. It huffed and puffed and grunted and groaned but carried him through the major intersections, passed buildings made of glass and metal until he saw nothing but trees. The silence that came with leaving the city sent a wave of calmness that pulled the burning in his eyes back to the forefront.
Still, Kincaid kept driving. In fact, he pressed his foot down on the gas, speeding around Coleman’s Curve causing the truck to squeal.
Once he was on the straight again, he inhaled deeply as the first tear rolled down his cheek.
No! Not yet, damn it! I’m not there yet!
He sped up even more, the window whistling by his head and through the cab of the truck until finally he pulled onto the dirt road leading toward the cabin his father used to carry the family to when they were younger. His best days happened at the old place and after his father’s death, because no one else wanted the cabin, Kincaid took it and slowly built it up with his bare hands. Now he ran there when the world was unfair or cruel. Lately, the world seemed to have taken a distinct dislike to him and from one bad thing to another, he was left, tumbling like a drunk man from the truck and all but crawling toward the structure.
He passed through the house like a man possessed and didn’t stop moving until he gripped the banister of the back deck and bent over, hauling in big gulps of air. From somewhere in the darkness of his mind, the pain that throbbed through his heart, Kincaid remembered the beauty of Breathstoke Cabin–from the calm green of the lake water, littered with moss, to the sun going down splashing the heavens with every colour imaginable.
But there was something else on the air.
Kincaid cried them. He let waves after wave of sadness surge through him. He cried for the death of his hero–his father, a passing he hadn’t really mourned in the ten years his father has been dead. Kincaid cried for ever broken relationship he’d ever have, all the women whose hearts he broke and for all the times his heart was broken. He cried for the loss of faith he had in the justice system but most importantly, he cried for the loss of a child.
Yes, Kincaid Swaby had plenty to cry for, plenty to mourn.
Please continue to support my fellow authors who are apart of this little venture. Nathan Burgoine (another spank-tastic fellow I met at Romancing the Capital) has one up now!