Microfiction: Men’s stuff

Sacha’s prompt this week, a time limit rather than word limit prompt, is pretty unlikely, but for once, I managed to do it. Not in 120 seconds, but less than four minutes, mainly because I can’t stop myself correcting spellings and typos as I go. Anal, I know, but there you are.

Anyway, the theme was Blowtorch and this is my 120 second (and a bit), stream of consciousness story.

It looks a bit like an oil can. Not that I’ve ever taken much notice of what George knackles away at in his shed. Men’s stuff. He’d have put a lock on the door if he’d ever dreamed I’d come in here and disturb him. Well, first time for everything. He’s left bits of metal lying everywhere—on his workbench, on the floor. You can’t see to tell the truth in here for the filth over the window. A bit of a tidy up won’t go amiss either. I pick up the battered can thing. It’s warm as if he’s just been using it. Wonder what it does? I turn it to look down the spout thing and press on the—