He had spent months constructing a space-ship console in the kitchen. Each morning, when Ma lay sprawled on the sofa in the next room not recovering from a hangover, Titch reconfigured his glass control levers, filling with empties the slots vacated the night before. Despite Ma never feeding him, he would make a fine astronaut.
Already an expert in drawing up blackcurrant juice from cartons with a syringe, one day soon — probably Sunday — Titch planned to fuel his space-ship from the vein in Ma’s arm, sure she would have enough alcohol in her blood to launch it way beyond the sun.
Image courtesy of Marie Gail Stratford
Friday Fictioneers — 100 word stories