100 Worder
David Hook
Cellar Door
Bitter Cold Tea
A
cottage upon a storm battered bluff.
A
cellar door shunned for decades past, hinges rusted and fused.
Powder
blue paint, cracked, mosaic.
A
frail woman with skin as flaked and fractured.
Knarled
fingers raise a cup to her rouged lips. She sips.
Leaves
staccato against the window, conducted by a biting November wind.
A
fitful glance, another sip.
A
howl borne on the tempest's back. The cellar door silent and bolted.
A
lull. The ticking clock.
Behind
the cellar door, creaking.
Forlorn
sobs seeking the woman's stony heart.
A
birth hidden in youth, secret.
Another
sip.
Mum's
the word.
About the Author
David
lives on the edge of Epping Forest having been raised on a council estate in
South London. Recently resigned from a stressful job after twenty years he
finds that his mind is decluttering and is now able to concentrate on hobbies
and interests. He hopes, despite a crippling fear of grammar and punctuation,
that writing will become one of them.
No comments:
Post a Comment