The uprooted trees symbolised the turmoil in her thoughts, a burning itch of fire ants on her skin. The bitter drink aggravated the snake coiled in her belly, a mixture of freedom with the dread of discovery.
Last night’s tempest thundered like a herd of stampeding buffalo battering the hotel with spears of rain, and the window crashed across the room. She acted on impulse, a frenzied flash of angry until the bedsheets resembled an impressionist canvas of red.
Her cup rattled in the morning quiet. The train departs at seven and she will travel alone.
I am amazed how the BMW in Liz Young’s photo-prompt does not appear to have any damage, considering the wall and railings are in pieces.
You can read more Friday Fictioneer’s contributions and stories here.
She drives wearing high heels, rummages in her handbag and, at junctions, if she stops, she has to text the kids. When we are in the car, she will nag at me. You missed the kids’ school play and games day–-a crime in her eyes. The traffic accident held me up. I didn’t get home until midnight. Apparently, I never liked her Mum. Hell! the poor lady died before we met.
You are wearing the wrong shirt, and Martha will comment on it.
My daughter Sally-Anne married Billy-Joe, and for years they have lived at home with us. It’s time; my wife, Elly, agreed. Since Sally and Billy are expecting twins, they should have their own place. It would stop all the fighting and arguments about space and who owns the washing machine.
We bought one of them prefabricated homes and put it down by the creek, not too far as Elly wants to be near the grandchildren. But just far enough to keep us all apart; sweet and happy.
The trouble is, Sally won’t agree about who gets to look after Grandma.
My thanks go to Dale for her picture of a flooded patio area, after a heavy rainstorm. Does this happen every year or just occasionally?
Many will suggest climate change as the reason for the flooding. Although climate change has been a constant drift over hundreds of years, we now know how this drift has sped up over the last tens of years. But as a planet of humans, are we heading for extinction?
Extinction is not a choice–Survivors
We stood in a circle and held hands. Everyone understood the ritual; our strength and fortitude were the foundations of the past and our future.
Greta, believe us; we will not move and live in the forests. Our generations have survived by this lake, our home.
We are the descendants from Lucy and accept Earth is a living monster of storms and earthquakes with an infestation of a multitude of life. As the environment changes, we will embrace technology and adapt.
Let us honour Mother Earth as she nurtures us.
We pray for humanity since extinction is not a choice.
Not as expected, but the rent is cheap and suddenly available. Sally checked the agency’s note. The landlord, Mr Bates, had the keys; she knocked. It’s the top flat. She followed him into a tiny room. You’re beautiful. He scratched his beard. Sorry! A pretty view. See the park. Oh yes, nice. Is that jasmine shampoo? She moved to the exit. No, no, this way. A dark bedroom with narrow windows, a carpet stain and a new mattress. He scratched at his neck. Should we forget about this month’s rent? She smiled. Maybe not, as my boyfriend would kill you.
This week’s picture, to me, is a reminder of the Burma -Death Railway built with forced labour by the Japanese Army during WW2. It is estimated that 90,000 labourers and 16000 allied prisoners of war died during it’s construction. The brutality of the period reverberates with us still, in books and in films. One film, The Railway Man, is an adaptation of the account of a British Army Officer, Eric Lomax, captured and tortured by the Japanese. Years after the war Lomax confronts his Japanese counterpart and they become friends. As they say; time heals. Perhaps, but only for some.
My story has nothing to do with that tragic period.
Their shift had ended 200 years ago, and the bearded miners packed the “Journey’s End” pub. The flaming fire warmed the room, but at midnight the atmosphere turned sullen.
John sipped his ale.
Outside, a train screeching to a halt stirred all the men to drink up and leave. John followed them into a fog of hissing steam that obscured a locomotive. The miners climbed into the carriages, and the engine pulled away in the dark above dilapidated tracks. John marvelled at this silver miners’ mystery.
He returned indoors to his bitter ale, and the crowded pub of bearded miners.