She watched the factory sheds fade away in a wash of dirty train car windows and tears. Out of the valley, it’s looming hills glowering at her. The same disapproving look she experienced all her life. First her father, struggling to bring up three girls after her mother died. Her teachers, always ready with a ruler to dispense a sharp slap to her palm. Her husband: “This slop is disgusting. You’re disgusting,” slamming her head into the table. But, now, a smiling conductor, took the ticket from her trembling hands. With tears of joy, she watched her past disappear.

feature image: J. Hardy Carroll

for Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers.

My apologies if I don’t bounce around the other responses. Life happens; trees fall on your roof; landlady’s insurance company drags it’s heels; and so on and such and such and sigh. “Yet still she writes . . .”