Missed a few, done a few, my apologies to my adoring fans, but rotten politics depresses me and the entering into a dictatorship via the back door seems to be the way we’re going in the UK right now. So it falls to Rochelle to perk me back up; to get my Mojo working again. Nice shot from Dale Rogerson completes the picture and now its up to me to score a 100 word story with a beginning, middle and end, based on the picture.
On My Marks…
“Sometimes it Snows in April” said someone, I forget his name, I think he did too, so he changed it to a squiggle.
And with the cold, comes the electricity and gas hikes, the food price increases and the tax rises.
The food banks were full but since the rot set in, there’s only 50p family bags of pasta and Frey-Bentos canned pies, folk can’t afford to heat the stuff, so it’s left; best before date years into the future
He’d never enjoy the garden again, as he lay on the carpet, dried spittle a squiggle on the cold kitchen tiles.
There we are 100 words on the state of the country we call Britain after years of Tory power. Rotten and wretched.
Shows that dirty politics can’t be separated from everyday life
A depressing read, but I can’t gainsay your sentiment
A modern day Dickensian theme, as we head towards that world.
Oh what a world we exist within, where such things become the standard and not at all shocking anymore.
A timely comment on the way things have become. Whatever next?
Now that was depressing. We do live in “interesting” times, don’t we? Hopefully a walk through a garden can perk you up while they still exist. Sending you hugs from across the pond.
That was rather depressing. And an awful reality, to boot. I’m with Rochelle… a nice walk in the park to lighten the mood even if it doesn’t fix things in the immediate.
To feel so powerless and without hope is a tragic thing. Your poor MC has given up. The current world seems dark and confusing, this is true, but I hold onto the belief that in time all the small voices clamouring for change will make a difference. Lying on the floor in a puddle of one’s own spittle is no place to be.