Ficlets

“A prophet’s job is never done.”
The words repeat themselves, even as I stand here.
“A prophet’s job is never done.”
“A prophet’s job is never done.”
They are so loud that I can see them.
I don’t hear voices. I hear voice. A voice. Not even that.
It’s more like a thought. But I can’t control it, can’t stop it. An invading thought, taking me over. Filling me up untill I have no choice but to do it.
To kill.
I figured out how to stop it.
The sunset is beautiful. I can hear the waves beneath me crashing against the edged rocks. I can hear them even over the deafening sound of that voice. Thought.
“A prophet’s job is never done.”
The words repeat themselves, even as I plummet to my death.
“A prophet’s job is never done.”
It’s amazing how many thoughts you can have in such a short time. When you know you will die.
“A prophet’s job is never done.”
“A prophet’s job is ne.”