Our cottage, nestling in the valley, stood beneath a mushrooming white cloud that was discharging almost continuous bolts of lightning and rolls of thunder.
Yet everywhere else, even our neighbours’ houses, basked in brilliant sunshine beneath clear blue skies.
And that’s how I knew that Reeva was back.
“Will she stay long?” I whispered.
My mother stroked me, reassuringly.
“As long as it takes.”
It took months, and when she left, the clouds rolled back up the mountain, the primroses peeped warily through the undergrowth, and the tinkling of cow-bells resumed.
My resentment smouldered; even as my heart soared.
In my relentless quest to avoid the massacre and mayhem angle, for a little while at least, this week’s offering for Friday Fictioneers can be interpreted literally or figuratively. I can’t promise I can hold out much longer though; the need to “off” someone is almost uncontrollable. And talking of “offing” people, if Rochelle writes another heart-tugger like this week’s… 😦