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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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All sorts of possibilities. South Africa might be a good bet at this time of year I suppose.
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If not... buying roses at any time of the year is fairly simple (if costly). However, roses from a florist will be wrapped up, or at the very least tied together at the stems.
These weren't. He had them loose in his hand, as if they'd just been picked from his garden. Maybe they were, though if so he was a champion rose-grower (or, ahem, one of his neighbours was).
Maybe he bought them from a florist, but took the wrapping off. I don't know. It was just an unusual sight.
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People often seem to suspect me of that, for some reason...
I think picking them at home, or at someone else's home, would be pretty tricky in February; even for the championest of growers. Maybe he'd been running along carrying them and the wrapping had got snarled up and manky, so he figured it would look better just to discard it completely.
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