The nattering old fool was beguiled by now threadbare carpet and the refulgent fandangles tossed haphazardly about. Henry was a craven fifteen last time he’d stepped foot inside and at his current age, had forgotten the portent foretold by his Grandfather decades passed. The first wallop came as he crossed the threshold. No longer young, the mistress of the house looked not for a swain, but reached for blood. The second blow came in the form of a goblet thrown with more vigor than Henry would have given her credit to own.
“War came, the draft.” Henry protested as the last object, a battle axe of some worth, split his fate from stem to stern.
On her knees at his side, the mistress buried cold hands in silken cloth and cried over his death as she had at his leave.
Written for the Monday Mixer flash fiction challange hosted by Jeff Hollar. Rules can be found here.
I don’t often try for the Over Achiever, incorporating all 9 words into the story, but I managed today.