Sue Vincent runs an excellent weekly writing prompt called #writephoto, where she shares a wonderful, evocative picture from her collection, and you have until the following Wednesday to write something inspired by it. Here’s this week’s photo, and this is my response:

He liked to leave the house at sunset. Once the lamps had been lit, the dying sun painting licks of fire against the clouds. It hurt, to be outside at such a time, but it was worth it, to feel his soul twist and open against the beauty of the world, a reminder of something he could no longer have.

He remembered hours spent lying under blue skies, golden sun warming his skin. Lazy summer days drifting on rivers, nursing a beer in a pub garden, the sweet-sour taste on his tongue. The way the ocean shifted hue with the sky, the bright green of sunlight through leaves, the miraculous coloured arc of a rainbow.

All that was lost to him now. No beer, no warmth, no sunlit skies. It had seemed like such a good deal at the time, immortality an irresistible lure. And she had been so lovely, with her pale skin and red lips and dark promises – how could he have denied her?

But now she was gone. Vanished without so much as a by-your-leave. He was alone, confined to his house by day, wandering the streets by night. He had no taste for blood, despite his endless thirst – and besides, these were his neighbours. The thought of feeding from them was repugnant. So he made do with what he could find, small scurrying creatures that tasted of soil and berries, better than nothing, but nothing like the ecstasy she had promised.

He had no fancy for capes, nor for lurking in coffins. He left his house each evening, taking the curving road that reflected red back into the shimmering sky. One day, he thought, he might just keep walking, see if he could find her again. Or, failing that, someone else like him.

Eternity, after all, is no fun spent alone.

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