When both Granmas wanted houses, we couldn’t build out, so up we went. They got on “like rats and poison”, daddy said, eyes rolling.
Rats was fat. Weird things came out of the water in those days, but she turned them into feasts. Poison had a small still. After Mamma left, Rats’ cooking and Poison’s liquor kept the place going.
Rats began her day clashing pans together. Poison ended hers playing the banjo, keeping Rats awake. They never spoke.
They died the same year. After Rats went, Poison gave up the banjo, and just faded away.
Photo by JS Brand. Prompt by Rochelle, 100 words for the Friday Fictioneers.