Flash fiction with the words: lightning, gold, crystal
|I often wondered if there were people poorer than us. Mind you, it wasn’t done in a self-pitying manner to evoke pathos. The thoughts were objective and to understand if it was even possible.
My father collected scrap for a living and my mother, an invalid due to an unfortunate accident, remained bed-ridden. However, before the truck ran over her legs, she managed to have us three girls at evenly space intervals of two.
Some days we went without food and it was easy to tell when that was. One look at my father entering our one-room home, it was crystal clear that there was going to be nothing to eat that night.
We dreaded the rains. Water seeped in from orifices in all three dimensions.
That night the rain was horrendous. Our two broken buckets served as ineffectual resistance against the deluge. Vehicles passing by on the main road contributed their share of the water to our abode.
An expensive car slowed down in front of us and the back door opened. A backpack flew out and the car sped away. Quick as lightning, I ran out, grabbed the backpack. Immense weights slowed my return. My sisters watched with wide eyes as I unzipped the bag. Gold bars shone at us despite the dim candlelight.
My father frowned.
“We need to take it to the police,” he stated. There was no arguing with him.
The next morning, I sulked as I walked beside him to the police station.
The constable wasn’t too happy to see us. A glimpse of the gold transformed him. He led us in to the inspector.
We narrated the events of the night. He gave a look I didn’t recognize.
He asked me to leave and my father nodded.
I never saw my father again.