The Cannon

She sighed as she locked up the heavy wooden door behind her. The last visitors had gone now. At last she was alone, she thought, looking up at the old cannon next to the bench. It was a strange place to have it there, she mused, as she always did. Though she was meant to be the expert on the castle’s history, she had no idea why the cannon stood at such an awkward angle. She shook the thought off and left the castle grounds to head home.

The sound that erupted behind her nearly made her jump a mile. Bewildered, she turned around, just in time to feel the sharp pain as the bottom ends of a strand of flowers hit her face. She winced, looking around. Someone was striding towards her. She groaned.

“You? What the hell was that?”

“Sorry,” he said defensively when he reached her. “I couldn’t resist using the cannon there. I had the angle worked out exactly that you would catch it standing there.” He looked delighted. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“It did hit me, yes, but no, it hasn’t changed my mind.” She rubbed her face, looking at him angrily.

He looked deflated all of a sudden. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I guess I’ve caused enough harm already.” He spun around and left her there. She wanted to call after him, tell him she had changed her mind after all, but she just watched him leave, tears rolling down her cheeks.

© 2016

Sunday Photo Fiction, June 26th 2016