The sweet reek of decay mingled with a muted scent of honeysuckle. In the unmoving summer afternoon a cloud of blowflies descended on the wet soil.
Russell sighed in frustration.
“Another body; is there anywhere in this bloody garden where to plant an apple tree?”
He glanced skyward and sun had passed its zenith, no need to look at the watch; it was time for afternoon coffee.
The patio looked like it had been abused by humongous armadillos. White bones extended from many of the holes.
Russell had learned his lesson:
Never buy a neglected orchard from a savage Scotsman.
A picture of one my favorite fictioneers digging in the garden is a clear invitation to include other fictioneers.
Friday fictioners is a group of bloggers trying their best to write good stories to the same image. Rochelle sets the example and select the image. Join if you like.
May 30, 2018