There was a huge crash as the shelves tore from the kitchen wall and the stored crockery and crystal smashed.
A twenty first birthday present; a wedding gift; a love token; items from times, places, people long gone.
I cried, not for the broken dishes but for the shattered memories.
This really did happen in Jan’s old-fashioned kitchen.
The orchestra had lulled the audience with a sweet adagio before the violins began to reach the crescendo, urgent in tone and tempo.
The music swelled towards the climax; the audience, enveloped in its energy, anticipated a tumultuous finale.
The sound of the exploding bomb mingled with the last notes.
Jan lives in the Riverland of South Australia where abundant wine helps with the creative process.
He was tall, solid, heavily tattooed, an image of aggression. Even when he slept, naked, sprawled on the bed, there was a tenseness to him, a readiness to attack at the slightest provocation.
Now he was immobilized by the light touch on his belly. The spider, unaware, was also still.
Jan Owens lives in South Australia, retired from education and nursing and now happily playing with words.