I ran. Beside the stable-block I found the old privy. Ceiling slung with cobwebs and a stink of stagnant water, still I squeezed in there, behind the open door, holding my breath, worrying she would hear my heart pumping, the thump of blood in my ears. A movement of shade and brightness across the crack in the door, that’s all she was. The crunch of her shoes on the debris scattered across the stable yard. My hand over my own mouth.
And then the sun found her knife, flicked a bead of light across the privy’s dark interior, and reflected back my staring eye.
This is a 100-word or so Friday Fictioneers story. Friday Fictioneers is hosted by the lovely Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Anyone can join in by writing a 100-word story inspired by the picture above (this week supplied by Ted Strutz), or just come and read some pieces other writers have written.
Absolutely delighted that my novel, Our Endless Numbered Days is a finalist in the ABA (American Booksellers Association) Book of Year Awards.