Henri couldn’t believe his luck, stranded at Aberystwyth with only the clothes on his back.
“Don’t worry; you’ll only need your carry-on,” his wife had said. “You can even put your wallet and passport in there.”
He stared up at the station timetable, trying to make sense of the ridiculously long Welsh words, and sighed.
Gwilym, meanwhile, couldn’t believe his luck. As a pickpocket, he needed to be careful working the stations; and yet, he’d not lifted a single wallet for today’s find.
Once outside the Hereford station, he opened the battered suitcase. “Henri, eh? Merci, mon ami.”
Carrot Ranch Literary Community Entry
Becky always heard housefires described poetically. Tendrils of curling smoke, for example; or, flakes of softly drifting ash. Looking around, she could only think: burned, smoky, ruined.
Clearly, most poets didn’t stand in the charred remains of their own homes.
“That’s about it, ma’am,” the fire marshal said. Becky turned to him. His eyes were red beneath a sweaty, sooty hairline. Becky managed to nod, to dismiss him and his crew. Sighing, she shuffled behind them through the detritus.
A box. Squatting amongst flakes of softly drifting ash, she uncovered her fire safe. She smiled, through her tears.
Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Challenge.