I understand the risks. Watering flowers at windows while tan-clowns howl momma’s old songs, and business boys smear their laws against buildings and batter tramps for sport.
They’ve burnt all the trees so books can’t be printed, they say. And soon they’ll beat me and seize my plants. I’ll lie. If I say they’re money plants, maybe they’ll let them survive.
The curfew is almost here — legions of new boys are already shrieking on the stairs. I lie on my bed and watch my white orchid turn red, reflecting fires from another horror-bus below.
Something will be less beautiful tomorrow.
Thanks to Rochelle for organising and coordinating these Friday Fictioneer Challenges.