And the name for my serial is:
(Drum roll please.)
He showered stale smoke from his hair and body, and wrapped the towel around his hips. Torn t-shirt and jeans hung from his hand as he strolled to the rubbish bin.
Sync wanted to forget today. The clothes dropped in, he secured the bin lid.
It started out like any other day. Up early, a half hour run, breakfast and off to work. Then the world turned upside-down.
His mobile phone rang. It was Judy. She blasted him and told him to drop dead. She never wanted to see him again. He wasn’t sure why.
Then he stopped at traffic lights and two smart arse kids broke his passenger side window and stole his wallet. It had been on the seat. He was in shock from the phone call and not quick enough the grab the little mongrel.
Then the fire thing.
He drove down a side street and parked. He rang Judy. She didn’t answer. At the same time an old dear, waving her arms about, ran from the front door of the old weather-board house beside him.
“Fire! Fire in the kitchen,” she yelled in his broken window. “Please help. My daughter and grand-daughter are in there.”
Sync jumped out the car and raced to the front door.
By Diane L Wood