Porch Swing

by mismantle

Out in the country, the middle of what felt like to be nowhere, stands a small, old, country house with a porch swing.

Rock. Creak. Rock. Creak. Rock. Creak. Rock. Creak.

The old, rusty hinges and even older porch swing appeared to be talking with each other.

Rock. Creak. Rock. Creak. Rock. Creak. Rock. Creak.

What they were saying, nobody would know.

"Unless, they started to talk to each other with words," Ikuto mused as a stray breeze tusseled at his bed-hair. The half-asleep infant in his arms let out a small hic as if in reply. Ikuto smiled at his precious son. "Do you know what they're saying?" the father whispered.

Rock. Creak. Rock. Creak. Rock. Creak. Rock. Creak