Washing Up

16th Feb 2017

Another six sentence story:
The cue is "sink".

Washing Up

Walking in the front door, she picks up the post and her gaze goes straight through to the kitchen, to the sink, piled high with dishes, the sound of a plop from the  tap ,  mirroring the drip from the overflowing sink onto the floor.

Oh my goodness, she thinks,  I’ve only been away two nights helping Sarah with the new baby couldn't he at least have tidied the  kitchen  for when I got back.

Turning the tap off she picks up her bag , turns to go upstairs wondering where he is and deciding that he's  probably with his mates down the allotment.

Wearily, she climbs the stairs, glad to have time to herself so they don't have a row about his lazy behaviour, which she is just not up for today.

“That bloody man, left the ruddy toilet for me as well,” she says out loud, as a strange smell catches her unawares at the top of the stairs.

In their bedroom she stares in disbelief as she sees her husband lying there and going  over to him finds his cheek ice cold to her touch.

Early Risers

Something I found when trying to sort through my "stuff". The first a short piece about washing day
And then a bit of flash fiction - story in exactly 100 words. Hope you enjoy them...

Early Risers

5.0 a.m.- rise 

Fill copper  - Six buckets of water
 light fire under wash tub,

Add soap shavings- Sunlight Carbolic,

Breathe in fresh, clean scent,
Throw in a  bit of soda to prevent scum.

It's Monday - washing - the entire day.

New to me, being  used to the modern machine.

But mother-in-law's routine.

Whites in first - boil,

Open windows for steam to escape.

Next coloureds; 

Lastly work clothes - the grubbiest.

Wooden tub for hand scrubbing,

Washboard for more soiled items.

All laundry rinsed  - fed through rollers of mangle.

When all is finished,

A tired satisfaction...

No time for anything else.

Even dinner is cold meat from yesterday,

With bubble and squeak from Sunday leftovers.

Ironing

Keeping everything normal Sheila starts ironing. It is Tuesday, after all. She'd kept up the regimental routine her mother-in-law had instilled in her all those years ago. Each day had its particular job - Monday, washing day, Tuesday, Ironing, - a useful distraction on this significant day.
Automaton like, she picks up his shirt, the one she bought him last Christmas. She knew then that she would be here today. The iron sweeps backwards and forwards. Smiling, she plans how she will go to the the greenhouse later and dispose of his  body and his  mug containing the evidence.