It had been raining inside the supermarket for 40 days and 40 nights and Percy, who had been sitting on a makeshift island constructed from tins of baked beans, was beginning to get more than a little cheesed off.
George, whilst floating by last Wednesday on a barge made from sardine cans and baguettes, had said that Margaret made it to the newspaper stand where Nigel had told her the weather was set to change this week.
It hadn’t and Percy’s island was rapidly shrinking.
Percy sighed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his trusty Swiss army knife.
Submitted for Friday Fictioneers photo prompt. See if you can write a piece of flash fiction in 100 words.
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