‘Oh no, another one! When will it end?’ Coralie sobbed.
‘It’ll take a while to flush them out. They’ve got lots of dark cavities to hide in, but they have to come out to feed, and the exterminator’s laid the poison skilfully. He knows his job.’
‘I didn’t want to move here, Carl. I wanted a new house. “Potential,” you said!’
‘Come on Sweetie. Cheer up. Let’s go for lunch and when we get back it’ll have crawled outside to die.’
Carl and Coralie scuttled away, leaving the pale, fleshy, two-legged vermin squirming on the floor, fighting for breath.
This delightful picture is this week’s prompt for Friday Fictioneers, a weekly flash fiction event hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, where writers contribute 100 word stories in response to a photo.
I’m wondering if I’ve done something to annoy the god of vermin recently, as the story I’ve come up with is my story, minus the role reversal. I really didn’t want to write about cockroaches right now. Having moved temporarily into a rental house, in between selling and buying, we’ve been conducting a cockroach offensive, and the battle has been heated. I think we’re winning, but it pays not to drop your guard.
The neighbours, and the real estate agent, tell us it’s environmental; that you’re alright as long as it’s the big black ones you’re fighting, and not the smaller lighter coloured ones. They’re really bad news, apparently.
I’m not yet ready to adopt such a high tolerance approach to our big black squatters, and any qualms I might have felt about chemical methods of pest control have gone out the window. This is war.