This week’s #writephoto prompt from Sue Vincent is
In a world of increasing tension, governments are alert to any sign that nasty surprises are on the horizon. When the sky caught fire over Weston-super-Mare one moist Tuesday in February, just as the annual Antique Cheese Rind collectables fayre was closing, causing some Georgian Gouda vanilla shavings to melt into the only remaining example of fifteenth century ‘da Vinci’ dolcelatte crust, the RAF was scrambled (much like the fate of a rather splendid example of Victorian egg-washed cheddar).
Thus was set in motion a rippling of national defence forces being put on alert across the globe. What had happened to cause such unwelcome atmospheric combustion? A weapon of mass derision? Another example of Crazed-Boffin Syndrome?
At 19 Olympus Drive Pallas Athena sniffed the air as she wheeled her shopping cart towards her front door. Goddesses, she mused, shouldn’t need to shop. Those puling humans Horace terrorized had Ocado, for Us sake, so why not a celestial delivery chariot?
She sniffed again. Leaving Horace alone may not have been such a good idea; these long holidays were endlessly boring – good training for all the lounging a God is required to undertake but for a teenager, a bit of a grind. She should have checked what homework module he was working on.
Pushing into the house she dropped her bags and ran for the stairs; the place was full of smoke.
In Horace’s room, the boy was sat on his bed, tears rolling down his eyes. The homework workbook sat nearby, opened at ‘Module 5: How to create the Hephaestus effect: heavenly fire in all its forms’.
‘I didn’t mean it, mum. It sort of exploded.’
He pointed through the fog to his planet, now smouldering in the corner.
‘I thought it might be nice for them to have a new light show. I’ve ruined it.’
Athena tssked, opening a window. ‘Silly boy. Go to the cleaning cupboard and bring me the can of atmosphere restorer – it’s the purple one. You can’t call yourself a god until you’ve caused an interplanetary conflagration. We’ll soon have this sorted. Spit-spot.’
As Horace rushed away she peered down at the surface of the much-scarred world; funny little rock, that Earth – it’s amazing the scrapes it gets itself into, she thought, but it sort of grows on you. She leant in closer, sniffing hard. That’s what it was, that’s what she had smelt. Melted cheese. Time for a toastie, she thought.