PRODIGAL SON
In the narrow
alleys of the barrio word spread like floodwater, and if Juan misbehaved his mother
had her slipper waiting when he got home. “I heard what you did.” At sixteen
he ran away.
In the
city Juan lived by his wits, and was soon smoking fat cigars and wearing gold
rings. But when he was ill, no-one brought soup: when he fell, nobody helped
him up: and when he screamed, nobody heard.
Aged
thirty-two, he returned home, where his mother
clipped his ear. “I heard what you did.”
Juan
smiled happily as she washed the prison stink from his clothes.
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Thanks to Rochelle for this week's Friday Fictioneers' photo prompt. It reminds me vividly of the narrow alleys I saw in Tenerife, hence my Spanish hero Juan. You can read what other writers made of Jan Marler Morrill's photo by following the links here: https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/
This is one of my own photos from Tenerife - you can see the resemblance.
This is one of my own photos from Tenerife - you can see the resemblance.
