Blast
The blast ripped through my quiet
neighborhood. Really? Pirates? All that was
needed was a booming “Avast!” and they’d all hit the deck.
But the whole thing passed and was ignored
by most people driving west. What did they care? In jest,
they mounted early morning jets, lest they be late for their transcontinental
meetings or holidays.
Sing, sing about it if you like or ring a friend
tomorrow morning. Fling about some hyperbole to make it even more
exciting. Go ahead, say Mike was thrown off his bike on the
pike. That should go down well.
Joe’s fart.
Found Note |
“You made me
believe you were coming back …” the tattered note under the windscreen wiper
read.
Gravel parking lot
empty but for this car. Shop deserted, its "Closed" signpost lopsided in the
window. How long ago?
I could have drawn
my face on the dust that had settled on the hood. Coming back? Coming back from where? Handles covered in cobwebs, wipers
rusty. Tiptoes, not touching anything, to peek through the driver’s side dirty tinted windows.
What was that slumped over in the
passenger seat?
I gasped and lost my
balance.
Call the police?
No. Run away …
No money |
It was still pouring, but he’d have
to go out. They had run out
of subscription money, the butter dish was empty and bedridden Ella hated toast
without butter. How to get it
without money?
No matter how many
times he revised his plan, all Don could come up with was stealing it. But he wasn’t a liar, a cheat, or a
thief. Ella cried out again.
Don shivered as he
shifted mentality. She whimpered. Donning coat and cane he shuffled out into
the rain.
He would do it … for her. He’d promised her for better or for worse.
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Unless otherwise noted, all articles are written by Cath Rathbone. (Copyright Catherine (Cath) Rathbone and Noony Brown)