Yes, the doctors call it Aichmophobia – the fear of sharp objects. I hate this fence, rather, dread it. The roundness of the few curves and arches do not help much. Autumn increases the unsightliness, with the sharpness of bare branches. The twigs lying around the porsche, represent my hapless life –of being separated from the roots, and of being isolated.
The beast that I once loved, has chosen this house behind the fence (ouch) to incarcerate me. He will not have to pierce me with knives to kill. He will kill my soul, metaphorically – to inherit my mega millions.
Inspired by Friday Fictioneers by Rochelle Wisoff