From her small balcony, the witch watched the world go by, remembering sadly her lovely forest home. A forest fire had raged and taken her ancient house, with the only safe place to hide was behind an old iron stove.
Sigh,
so many memories…
Today Wanda was waiting for the painter, whom she had
hired from a town 200 miles away, to come and cover the hideous pale blue kitchen walls with
bright swirls and stripes. How can anyone
stand such blandness, no excitement, no taste?
Wanda rocked and gazed through the screened in-balcony,
seeing neighbors was along the street in front of what was now her home. A
jogger, who was drinking bottle water…well, he's a bit stringy! Tsk. Tsk.
Then a muscular man walking his miniature poodle strolled
by. My,
he’s burned off every bit of fat… He
waved at Wanda, as she called out, “Hello, dearie!”
Then the mailman who walked briskly, no time to linger…then
the old woman with walker, skin sagging from her bones…
Finally, a rusty truck braked in front of her house, and “Painter
Pete” stepped out. “Howdy there,
Mz Wanda! I’m runnin’ a bit late, but…” Wanda had ceased listening to his prattle. She was instead noticing fat buttocks, portly
love handles, a pudgy gut, and massive possibilities.
“Come right in, Mr. Pete!
I have been waiting for you!”
Yes, Wanda had been waiting. The oven was hot, the cleaver sharpened, and a
hypodermic heavy duty sedative waiting. Knocking
someone out with an iron shovel was so old school.
Don't you just love Cloris Leachman?
Today's Wednesday Word Challenge is being provided by Defending the Pen.
A fellow blogger Barbara Beacham has selected a photo prompt and a sentence written above.
While the rules limit the length of the flash fiction to 100-150 words, I am a rebel, always have been.
Please click on Defending the Pen site to see what is happening there.
