Thanks to dear Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers and to Lisa Fox for the photo.
The winter’s night looks deep and dark through my kitchen window. My kitchen is warm and cosy, home-made scones cool on the table, infusing the room with buttery fragrance.
Too cold to go out to the polling station now. Anyway what’s the point? My vote makes no difference. My responsible self says, think of those campaigners.
I will vote now. The path to the polling station is deserted, only sound is my footsteps crunching on the gritted surface. The polling station’s silence is punctured by the two whispering tellers.
‘Here’s your ballot paper.’