Ruben’s hair is flattened to his head by the rain and I ask him again why our car couldn’t have a roof. Ruben snarls at me like the dog we had, the one that drowned when the water came in our house. I can’t remember the dog’s name, but I watched him from the attic window. He floated away like a dirty rug, out the door and down the street, bumping into the chairs and suitcases and people that were swept away too. Ruben says that if I don’t stop whining he’ll leave me behind, so I’m quiet while the engine coughs and Ruben curses.

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This piece of writing is part of the Friday Fictioneers writing group. Each week writers from around the world attempt to write 100 words (or so) starting with a picture, this week from Beth Carter.

I’d love to receive comments and constructive criticism. Click here to read other people’s stories inspired by this picture or to join in, with the group hosted by Rochelle Wishoff-Fields.