Wednesday's Words on a Friday

The original Words for Wednesday was begun by Delores and eventually taken over by a moveable feast of participants when Delores had computer troubles.

The aim of the words is to encourage us to write. A story, a poem, whatever comes to mind.

If you are posting an entry on your own blog, please let us know so we can come along and read it.

This month the words are supplied by Margaret Adamson and friend and can be found here.

This week's words are in fact two photographs, only one of which I have used.

Here is my story:

As the cool dark of night began giving way to the radiance of dawn, Helen rose from her small single bed and padded into her bathroom. She no longer paused at the window to watch the gold chasing away the black. The walk to town was long and she disliked being late. Hurrying through her morning wash, Helen put on the clean clothes laid out the night before, then returned to the bedroom where she smoothed the bedding and laid her folded nightgown across the end of the bed. Noticing the threadbare fabric, she decided this year a new one would be bought before the cold of winter began.

She stepped into her sandals and moved through to her kitchen/living area, where another indication of passing time caught her attention. The old round wooden spoon, one edge now partially flattened from years of stirring porridge, eggs, rice, stews. So many meals over the past twenty years. It was a humdrum existence, but Helen no longer minded. Fleeting thoughts of the long-gone fifteen year old Helen, excited and eager to learn, rarely crossed her mind these days. The routine had become comforting, with her one joy being Sunday afternoons when two new books were delivered from the town Library. Books were rare in these days of screen addiction, there were so few left and few people too, who preferred the silence of the written words over the bings and beeps of hand held devices.

Finishing her breakfast quickly, the dishes were rinsed and stacked, ready to be properly washed later that night after her dinner had been eaten. She left her tiny cottage, carefully locking the door and turned to face west, where the sky was still dark and night mist still hovered. She would follow the now useless train tracks through the mist, through the forest, to get to town, where she worked. 

Today was coupons and vouchers day, people would be coming in to get their cards stamped for the next rations of perishable goods. Those who had not worked enough hours this week would be allowed milk and eggs, but denied the luxury of a little butter.