It was bloody raining. It dripped from the gutters and made a din on the rusty tin roof, the rata tat tat of a staccato tattoo. Goddamn yard was a swimming pool.
I shoved another cigarette in my mouth and let it dangle as I hunted for a lighter, one that was nowhere to be found.
“Oi Shazza, you seen m’light?”
“Outside!”
I stuck my head out the door, immediately drenched by God’s piss. There it was, taunting me in the rain. I struck it in the dry house, hoping the air was like tinder. Not a spark.
Fuck me.
About the Creator
Ash Taylor
He/Him
Bachelors of Media and Communications, currently battling my way through a Masters in Journalism. Working in radio telling stories, and writing on the weekend. Making my way through my 400 odd backlog of books.
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Compelling and original writing
Creative use of language & vocab
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Original narrative & well developed characters
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More stories from Ash Taylor and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Making Camp. Runner-Up in Microfiction Magic Challenge.
It had been a homestead, once. Now only the skeleton of the house remains, choked by weeds. It's as good a place to sleep as any, I suppose – hard to find someplace safe these days. There's too much danger in the world now. Too many dogs around.
By Ash Taylor3 years ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
Love the colloquialisms in your piece!
I really appreciate this, even as a nonsmoker... 🤔