Creative Writing On Fracking

I rushed to the table, heat tearing into my fingers.

Then, it slipped. The endless crack of shattering glass echoed around the room as I stared in catatonic silence at the prickling glass pieces which laid dangerously on the tiled floor.

White gleamed against chrome coloured tiles. The wooden table mockingly stared at me, barely a centimetre away from the pieces of ceramic glass. Panic set in, slowly coiling around me and its fangs reared to strike.

Flaming hot rice mixed with the equally scalding ceramic glass shards until I could barely discern the food from glass. I recoiled and jumped back to avoid stepping on anymore glass, sending another barrage of shards flying. The shrilling hiss of the ceramic cracking played on repeat in my head until it felt like a a predator staring at me. I helplessly recalled the horrible action of holding a painfully hot bowl without a wipe cloth. I snapped out of my thoughts when my mother moved smoothly over to pick the largest glass pieces off the floor, but her face was set into a scowl and her voice sent more dread piling up until it chillingly spread like poison.

You never listen and now /look/.” My mother tore through the flimsy reason of not using a wipe cloth. Then my father joined in the fray, a deep baritone added to the chaos and it settled a blank feeling in my head as if cotton was stuffed in my ears. A sharp pang of hurt seeped into my brain and the recurring thought of /myfaultmyfault/ echoed viciously in the repeating moment of crackling