“Mister Sam!” yelped Rosalyn, rushing through the door.
“Rosie?” groaned Seamus, prone on the floor.
“You crash into the tree in your yard!”
The clacking of designer high heels stopped beside him.
“Hey Bukowski, we had a date,” huffed Shelagh.
“The chandelier is extraordinary. I hadn’t noticed until just now,” Seamus remarked.
“Rosie, hose him down and torch the place,” Shelagh said, lighting a cigarette, stepping over Seamus.
It had been a year since Charlotte’s death from cancer. Shelagh hoped a housecleaning and brunch at the country club might lift her widower son’s spirits, but it seemed hopeless in the circumstances.
This has been an installment of the Friday Fictioneers Challenge. If you would like to give the challenge a try, start at Rochelle’s Purple Blog and join the fun.
Here’s the concept: A weekly picture is posted, and the writer is challenged to produce one-hundred (more or less) words of some sort of fiction with a complete plot (beginning, middle and end).