Anita kicked the bedpost. Once. Twice. And once more. Third time she missed, and hit the vase stand. Pieces flew all over the room. Broken, shattered bits. Like her. Her mum didn’t see that, didn’t care about that. She cared about the breaking sound. The noise which aggravated her headache. That she compared to the house falling. More like a rats in the cupboard din, Anita thought. It was more than she could take.
She scurried to the garden. Her solace through the years. Not today. The sun was in a bad mood too. His fury burned her skin. The odour of dog poo greeted her instead of the sweet-smelling roses. She picked up a sharp rock. Of course, she would never hurt the neighbour’s dog. Even though he was the re-incarnation of Zoltan. Instead she hurled it at the letter box.
The flowers weren’t co-operative either. The rose drew her blood. The Hibiscus refused to placate her nose. She crushed the flower for the offense. Too late she recollected that the poor flower never boasted of fragrance. The hibiscus wouldn’t become a sweet scented flower just like she couldn’t be the son her mother wanted so much. It didn’t matter. She straightened the crushed petals. She loved every flower just as it was.
*One of my assignments at a Flash Fiction Workshop. The task was to write a piece portraying a strong emotion.
A little crow shattered the dusky silence. Perched on the edge of the roof, it tilted its beak towards the sky, and uttered a high-pitched caw. Its single silhouette against the sky resembled a weather vane.
Was it beckoning the other birds, or the sun, that was yet far below the horizon? Darkness still reigned, the twinkling stars providing a faint illumination. The biting cold of the night had calmed though it did give an occasional shiver.
The crow had company now. A lonely cuckoo started to sing. Its crow friends rattled, and grated. Sparrows cheeped from the nearby branches to join the conversation. A robin, and two pigeons cooed, not wanting to be left out. The crickets, that had taken a break, began chirping again.
The shrill twitters produced a symphonic tone with an incidental screeching tire adding to the din.