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.
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Image courtesy of Marie Gail Stratford
Friday Fictioneers — 100 word stories
Sarah Potter Writes 