STRIKE
I promised her she’d regret leaving
me, so when I’d collected enough pills I dissolved them in my morning coffee.
Bloody doctors and a stomach-pump put paid to that plan.
I faint at the sight of blood, so
knives are out of the question, I’ve no idea where to buy a gun, and the gates
to the canal towpath were locked.
So here I am on this railway bridge,
sitting with my legs dangling over the edge, waiting for a train, and I’ve just
remembered the drivers’ strike. Who would have thought it would be so flaming difficult to
commit suicide?
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Another story prompted by a photograph on Rochelle's blog https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/ , from whence you can follow the link to read how other Friday Fictioneers interpreted C E Ayr's photo.
