Cracked seashells lined the path to the garden shed. Shards lodged themselves between Abby’s toes as she walked back to the house, shovel in hand and ready to make some improvements. She opened the gate to the porch and soaked the warmth of the sun-bleached floor into her feet.
“Abby, is that you?” Husband had been napping just inside; summer heat rushed through the open door as she walked in and walked past him. She walked straight for the kitchen and struck the wall with the tip of her shovel. She got it wedged in there, twisting it around to open up the hole, let it breathe, then extracted the tool and stabbed again. Air poured from the broken drywall like it was a deflating balloon.
Husband came running at the noise, saw the puncture wounds dripping jagged plaster. By the time he’d fought through the shock that paralyzed him, she’d carved a massive bird and was on her way to demolishing that, too. She didn’t stop until her arm followed the shovel through the other side, into the bedroom. It got lodged in there and Husband didn’t feel inclined to move it.
Published at Goon and Darling Do Flash Fiction on July 26, 2012.