Monday, June 2, 2014
Prisoner of Abuse
Sunday's prompt words in bold.
The bucket, pregnant with river water, bounced against her thigh sloshing its overflow on her cotton pants. The drought worsening, fountains parched, crops withered, it felt more like a jail than home. She raised a hand to block the sun and wondered why she'd settled here. Robert's face materialized in her mind reminding her why. (55 words)
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Yet another argument for the theory that love is just another form of insanity. At least the bucket is the only thing pregnant. You weave a thoughtful tale, Jim.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Jayne.
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