The ladder from the garage wasn’t quite tall enough to reach all the way, but it brought us within touching distance of the guttering. From there you could pull yourself up and afterwards, reach down for my hands, smaller, thinner, not quite as adept at clambering about.
I let you lead me to a lot of places I couldn’t reach on my own.
Perhaps I should have worried sooner about being left behind but back then all I could think of was how strong you were. Lifting me like a bag of sugar to watch the sun set beside you.
“So tell me what we’re looking at?” asked Amelia, clipboard and pen at the ready as her wife Grace stepped past, black cocktail dress hidden beneath the newly acquired lab coat. Behind them, the night staff of St. Gregory’s clustered around the yellow tape marking off the far corner of the hospital car park.
Amelia sighed, they’d been having such a lovely date night.
“Well it’s not man-made,” said Grace, crouched down in front of the mess of crystal implanted in the tarmac. “It looks like it grew here.”
“Grew?” repeated Amelia.
“Yeah,” frowned Grace. “It looks familar, almost like——-
“It’s representative, not literal,” shrugged Noah, arms folded, watching the journalists clustered around his newest exhibition. “The idea just came to be, like a bolt of lightening on a clear day,” he smirked.
“Or a meteor at three o’clock in the morning,” snorted Poppy, his daughter. Tucked away towards the back of the exhibition she was out of earshot.
“I wanted to examine the complex, nature of human life, fractures yet still one whole.”
“You’re first words were awesome… it’s so shiny.”
“I really poured myself into this piece. Blood sweat and tears.”
“You had me dig it out.”
Now I’m really hoping that I’m not going to get in trouble for posting two responses to this prompt, but I really wasn’t sure about the first and the second sort of just popped up immediately after. I also wanted to use the same title for both pieces and it makes life less confusing if there aren’t multiple posts on a blog by the same title I find.
If you want to join in the Friday Fictioneers madness then just click on the badge above and it will zip you strait to the lovely Rochelle Wisoff’s site where you can find all the nitty-gritty. Tally ho bloggers! [Clearly I’m in quite an excitable mood, blame the very large mug of tea I just downed.]
You learn certain things about people when you live in a small village.
Like Mr Bartlett who always order three pints of lager before a pint of bitter, or Mrs Caraway who will always bake a malt loaf for the August fair despite claiming for the past six months that she was going to try something new.
Everyone is odd. You just notice it more in small villages.
Thomas Green however, was very odd. One Christmas he collected odd socks from the neighbours, and hung them around his porch.
I asked my mother why.
“Because,” she said. “He just does.”
I was really stuck for what to write this week, and since my car’s suspension decided to give up on me over the weekend, leaving me stuck in Shropshire with my parents, I thought why not draw upon local inspiration. [In the sense of odd neighbours, no one I know actually hangs odd socks as decorations.]