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.
When I opened the photo prompt this week I saw the humour of having such a robust security device. Yet, I noted the craft in the metal work so my story recognises this skill. Having worked with metal I understand the satisfaction of creating aesthetic pleasing items, no matter how simple they look.
Below the story I have added a crafted bespoke gate, which we fitted for a customer.
My story contribution to Friday Fictioneers reflects how the apprentice system needs resetting in this technological age.
A Chance Opportunity
Elliot hated the written blacksmith test. The pen snapped in his hand and he slammed the desk. ‘I’m sorry, sir. It don’t make sense.’ he said and wiped his eyes.
Mr McKay looked over his newspaper. ‘Take your time, lad.’ He watched as Elliot clawed at his hair. He was the worst-case illiterate and innumerate of anyone in the rehabilitation class. Words and letters jumbled around in the boy’s mind. However, he expressed eagerness in his eyes and was a skilled metalworker.
“A last chance,” the judge had said. “Join honest society and make use of your pilfering hands, constructively.”
‘Water, is the sustenance of life.’ Father Van Gory preached. Melba and Cheryl were at the back as usual, knitting. ‘Any time now,’ whispered Cheryl. ‘You’re mean.’ ‘You mustn’t tell.’ Cheryl dropped a stitch. ‘It’s only vinegar.’ ‘Serves him right.’ Melba stared at the priest. ‘Him rubbing salt in folks’ wounds.’
‘Alcohol,’ Father Gory pointed at the Bible group, ‘is a mean spirit.’ He picked up the bottle of water. ‘Let us pray and seek forgiveness.’ He took a large mouthful, then spluttered and sprayed it over his notes.
Cheryl dropped a stitch. ‘Immaculate,’ whispered Melba. ‘Let him seek forgiveness.’
John gripped the barrier. Will he jumble the words like last time? He wished he wore a clean shirt as sweat was gathering under his armpits. Oh, no! He wasn’t wearing his favourite blue dotted tie, his lucky charm. Yesterday, he spilled coffee over it as he reported the terrorist attack in Spain. Concentrate. He can do this, he has to be professional.
The train blast kept replaying in his mind. The image of those poor, poor children and his distraught sister screaming had kept him awake throughout the night. Traumatised, he clung onto the cold barrier. Lost for words.
‘Let’s have an ice cream,’ Carolyn said, ‘and stop talking politics.’ We were here to visit her grandmother and not to solve the Middle East’s problems. Having refused my money, she sold her Breitling to pay for our flights, but I insisted on booking the best hotel. She wasn’t pleased and mumbled something about expenses.
Next morning, she disappeared for the day. Where? That evening she burst into the hotel room. ‘Get packing, we are leaving. Now!’ ‘What?’ Her clothes were dirty with a smell of gun oil; a fresh gash on her head. ‘Now!’ We dashed to the airport.
The wonderful Dale has given us a picture of a garlic string to stir our imagination and taste buds. I understand that the greatest benefit from garlic is to eat it raw in salads. Does anyone really eat the cloves raw?
Radiant with the beauty of eternal youth, Silvia enchanted a fluttering of men like lavender surrounded by buzzing bees. Four of her husbands died of broken hearts and the fifth during a moment of rampant ecstasy, and she howled pitiless that night. It was her curse to devour the passion from the souls of men.
In Vulcan, the women called her ‘She Wolf’ and fortified their homes with strings of garlic.
Late afternoons, wearing fine leather and furs, she would ride her sleek stallion to lure a lusting youth.
By midnight, her mourning and howling would haunt the mountain villages.
Damn, how Malcolm preferred the office than coming home. He kicked a box out of his way. The City garbage strike was a health hazard.
Then he saw it. Hell! Mary has flipped. Another of her tantrums since the IVF failed, and for the last time. Dr Nolan said it was pointless.
Malcolm suggested adopting a baby girl. No, she wouldn’t listen to him.
In the flat, the aroma of baking eased his tension as Mary pecked his cheek in a gregarious mood.
‘Oh, Malcolm. I’ve decided to adopt.’
‘Then, why throw out the chair?’
‘Because Charlie is three already.’