This is a quick Friday Fictioneers effort, vaguely inspired by today’s election. I can’t help but wonder how much unnecessary pain we’d have been spared if someone had bought Nigel Farage and Paul Nuttall a shed. Thanks to sarah potter for the prompt.
(100 words exactly.)
Eustace could barely stand to think about the way the country was going. Too much immigration, he thought, though you weren’t supposed to say that. After Irene died, the kids had stopped visiting. Embarrassed of their old man, he supposed, though they’d understand in time.
For now, though, he had his potting shed. He could say what he liked to the broadbeans, and they wouldn’t call him racist. With government determined to send the country to the dogs, why would he leave?
Six months later, his son found his body, emaciated, encased in tendrils, a beatific smile on his face.