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Why do I find it hard to write the next line?
Every so often, walking about, I see things which catch my attention. I want to know how they came to be there. I want to know the story behind them.
By which, of course, I mean I want there to be a story behind them. Why was the guy in Reading station clutching a handful of tall red roses (bare stems, no wrapping paper or cellophane) and staring so anxiously at the escalators? Nervous first date? Waiting for a partner after an argument? Would the lady (or gentleman) he waited for be pleased to see him? And where did the roses come from?
This morning, on a garden wall on my walk to the station, there was a bottle of cava. It was Freixenet - not top end, but decent stuff. It was open, and only an inch or so from the top.
What set of circumstances, or curtailed celebration, causes someone to leave a barely-touched bottle of pricey cava in the street?
Fans of flash fiction-writing are invited to explain either circumstance in <100 words :)
By which, of course, I mean I want there to be a story behind them. Why was the guy in Reading station clutching a handful of tall red roses (bare stems, no wrapping paper or cellophane) and staring so anxiously at the escalators? Nervous first date? Waiting for a partner after an argument? Would the lady (or gentleman) he waited for be pleased to see him? And where did the roses come from?
This morning, on a garden wall on my walk to the station, there was a bottle of cava. It was Freixenet - not top end, but decent stuff. It was open, and only an inch or so from the top.
What set of circumstances, or curtailed celebration, causes someone to leave a barely-touched bottle of pricey cava in the street?
Fans of flash fiction-writing are invited to explain either circumstance in <100 words :)
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