She stirs the pot, scrunches her nose at the smell of garlic and herbs, and mops the sweat dripping down her neck.
A sudden clinking sound of bottles behind startles her, but she keeps her eyes on the pot. Her hands shake a little, more sweat breaks out. The braids of her hair tremble.
The clinking bottles move away, out of the kitchen, down the hallway.
She breathes and looks down at her protruding belly.
“Don’t burn it like last time. You hear me?” A thud in the living room.
She stirs the pot and wipes her forehead, “Yes, Daddy.”
For Friday Fictioneers – 25 September 2020.
PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
Outstanding, Nelkumi. You just keep getting better 🙂
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Oooh, you’re too kind and making me blush. Thank you. 😊
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Clever writing. Cooking and pregnancy don’t always mix do they? So much that comes across through what’s unsaid.
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Thank you kindly.
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The tension, like the sweat, drips along in the story. Beautifully written. A sad story of fear and abuse in only a few words.
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I’m glad it came through. Thank you.
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Lots not said for the reader to fill in the blanks, but I got an uneasy feeling reading your atmospheric story.
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I was going for an “uneasy” feel. Thank you.
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You’re welcome.
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So much is alluded to. Very well done.
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Thank you kindly.
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was she cooking his last meal that included poisonous mushrooms? with all the abuse she had suffered, it was about time.
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Haha.
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What’s cooking indeed? I worry I’m reading a lot into this; powerful tale!
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Thank you!
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Strong sad images came from this flash. Well done
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Thank you.
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