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. Sadly, Delores has now closed her blog forever due to other problems.

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 to read it and add a few encouraging words.

This month the words/prompts are supplied by Margaret Adamson and Sue Fulcher and can be found here

This week's words/prompts are: two photos.

Here is my story:

Andrew and Trevor had been best mates since they both arrived at the orphanage on the same day fifty-five years ago. Aged only five, they had both been orphaned, Trevor when his parents died in a house fire, Andrew when his parents died when the bus they were on ran off the road and slid down a cliff. 

Sticking together through thick and thin, life had not been easy. The orphanage had once been the Simpson Mansion, a fine brick building of many rooms and a large attic space. it had been handed to the city when the only remaining Simpson decided to wait out his final years in a warmer climate and headed for Jamaica. 

Andrew and Trevor had explored the entire mansion over several years, even the 'restricted' areas, which led to some severe punishment. As the boys grew older, punishments for infractions, real or imaginary, became ever more severe. The attic space had become "the punishment room" and any boy taken there could expect at least one strapping from a wide leather strap. 

Trevor knew that strap very well, since he was daily punished for wetting his bed, something he had no control over. Andrew also knew the strap, having been punished for refusing to learn his lessons. The boys were often in there together, wondering if the men who ran the orphanage had been especially chosen for their cruel qualities. 

They stood together now, aged sixty, and looked up at the iron shutters covering the attic windows, they had been added one year after a couple of the older boys had tried to escape by jumping out.

Andrew turned his back on the place, leaning against the old iron fence, and lighting up a cigarette. After being turned out aged fifteen, both boys had turned to a life of petty crimes, spending time in one prison after another, until now when they were placed in a halfway house and told to keep their noses clean for a change. 

"Place looks smaller somehow," said Trevor, "still gives me the creeps though." "Me too," said Andrew, "all those years being belted, instead of someone working out why I couldn't read." His latest prison had begun an educational system for the inmates and Andrew had been found to be dyslexic. With specialised tuition, he at last could make sense of letters and numbers, although reading fluently and adding up his budget was still in the future. Luckily, Trevor was still around to help him with both. 

"So why are we here now looking at it?" asked Trevor. Andrew drew a package of plastic explosive from his coat pocket. "I was thinking of blowing the whole place up," he said. "It's been empty for years, no one there but the rats in the kitchen." "So you don't fancy keeping your nose clean?" said Trevor. "It won't do much good anyway, blowing it up, those sadistic bastards are all gone, probably dead by now."

"I know you're right," said Andrew, "but I still want to do something." "How about you give that plastic back to Luigi for a start," said Trevor. Andrew shoved it back into his pocket and tossed his cigarette butt into a puddle. "Let's go to that cafe near the halfway and have one of them fancy cappucinos," he said. "Maybe I should see a therapist for a while, like Father Mitchell suggested."