Quiet Like Sunday

Listen.

Quiet like Sunday on the first of Spring.  No traffic, no voices, no airplanes.  Only birdsong or a dog barking.

Listen.

Humanity withdraws and the world settles into silence.  People in houses gaze through closed windows.  They can hear sunlight drip off buildings and roar down empty streets.

Listen.

Image by Harrison Fulop

This story also appears at fiftywordstories.com 

Trypophobia

The dream began as a once-a-nighter, but soon recurred many times night and day. Dreams of holes, large, small, deep, shallow, growing, shrinking. Waking in a cold sweat, skin burning through a thousand itchy pores. Holes consuming organs, bones and blood till nothing remained but endless dark of the universe.