A small robed man prepared to dip into the lake. He gazed at his reflection, as if what lay just beneath the surface were the better judge of his sins.
As I drew closer, his lover’s frock slung over his shoulders and stripped red from her blood seemed to assume a voice of its own.
No wonder the man crawled and cowered.
Tufts of grass, ripped from the dry dirt, were flung towards stoic blue stones slowly submerging beneath the hate he spewed.
All because his lover requested he wash the dishes. How ashamed he must be.
Word Count: 97
For Friday Fictioneers