PHOTO PROMPT © Brenda Cox
It was a sign, of course—an old French movie spliced into my street. But what did it mean?
Marie said it was just a green Citroen 2-CV, but Marie sees no meaning in the pattern of clouds either.
Faintly, I heard hooves and a voice chanting. “Any old iron. Any old iron.” Another intrusion.
I rushed to the kitchen and poured myself a medicinal brandy, terrified by the faint cry from the street “Up she goes.” When I returned, the 2-CV had vanished and our street returned to normal.
Marie didn’t think this spooky. “They probably went to work.”