Below is my entry for #MenageMonday. The prompts were this photo:
This phrase: “You’re joking.”
And this concept: a lucky day.
“Oh, Danny Boooooy!”
I laughed. I couldn’t help the burbling guffaw — or the note of bitterness. I tried to take a step and bit back a scream. Broken.
“‘He’s down there,’” I mimicked Fred’s voice. “‘They’ve got green beer — Danny planned a sewer party.’”
“It’s not a sewer; it’s a culvert.” Fred shot me a sour look and picked her way forward through the muck. Her feet made sucking noises, like giant leeches.
“You’re joking.” This was what I got for following her. My lucky day — she trips and grabs me in time for the fall. “He’s not here, Fred.”
“He said he would be.”
“I need help. I can’t walk.” Again I tried, and the broken bone screamed its protest.
“You stay here, Adrianne. I’ll get help.”
I didn’t have much choice. I winced at the pain in my leg, gritting my teeth as her footsteps vanished.
“Oh, Danny Booooy!”
I froze. “Fred? Danny?”
“When I am dead, as dead I well may be…” A chuckle. “My lucky day.”
Teeth piercing. It made a sucking sound like Fred’s feet in the muck as it hummed the strains of an Irish lullaby against my neck.