This story was prompted by the photo below. It’s the second one I’ve posted since January 2016 (both posted today for the same prompt), as I found my flash fiction mojo had disappeared after I’d taken a two-week digital detox.
I sent in the photo as I thought it might make a good prompt and, having done so, felt I should make an effort to write something. This is the second attempt. I’ve posted another one from a slightly different angle. Time will tell whether I’ve got my mojo working again. Thank you Al for using the photo and for hosting week after week.
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She Wheels Her Wheelbarrow
Molly felt bad about killing Derek. He was gentle and loyal and never strayed with that bitch across the green.
Frank was different – a moody man who’d married out of spite. Seldom violent, but always ready with harsh words about her looks, her cooking or the time she spent gardening. If she hadn’t looked after the garden it would have been a jungle!
On the rare occasions that he ventured out, he soon wandered back in, dragging mud with him. Then he’d blame Molly … even though she kept the place spotless, Frank called her a slut. When the ancient hoover died, you’d have thought the miserable goat would have happily bought a new cyclone thingy, so she could keep his castle spick-and-span. Instead Frank ranted about her clumsiness.
Then Frank had pushed Molly into the scullery, pointed to the broom and spat, ‘Use this.’
Molly obeyed, thrashing at Frank’s head until he collapsed to the floor, lifeless.
Molly found a good use for Frank, fertilising the old cherry tree. The hoover made a nice headstone.
As for Derek, mooching under the tree was one thing, but when he began to dig, Molly had to reunite him with his master.