The Jewelled Locust
The room was almost unbearably hot. A ceiling fan stirred the soupy air listlessly.
My grandmother’s face when she turned to me was yellow, skin taught over sharp cheek bones, eye sockets deep pools of purple.
She indicated the box of jewels. ‘For you and you alone. The very best.’
All I saw was the blood and toil of others, wealth won with deception and malice.
Outside, I opened the lid and handed a brooch to the child who guarded the decaying lobby. Fake emeralds, nevertheless valuable.
Unknown to my grandmother my half-sister and I still speak: different box, same lies.
M J Lewis 2017
Very late to the Friday Feast of Fiction this week, but such a stunning photo, thanks to Shaktiki Sharma. Thanks also, of course, to our esteemed host, Rochelle, and thanks to all who visit, especially those who stay to comment.