From my hiding place I watch her moving through the kitchen, preparing dinner.
Just like before…
I clench my fists … imagining the scent of stew… the scent of mother’s recipes!
A shadow appearing behind her, he snakes his arms around her waist
Fuming, I stare at them.
Imagining the praise she gets for her cooking… remembering the times I scolded her before she learned to cook like mother.
My father hit mother every time his meal was wrong.
She learned.and hugged me afterwards. Sobbing.
I open the switchblade, like father taught me and enter the building.
The angle of the picture made me imagine someone standing outside. Maybe stalking, most certainly with sinister plans.
With Friday Fictioneers you learn how to capture a story in 100 words. Many great authors participate under the leadership of Rochelle.
February 13, 2018