The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still.
He watches the pathway leading to a portico with ionic columns and a bronze door. Before the door is a sack of homespun wool.
Hooves clop, wheels scrape gravel, and harnesses jingle. Heat and blinding radiance forces him to look away for a moment. A chariot rolls past.
The sack is now burning. He dashes forward and pounds on the door.
A figure opens the door, looks surprised, and quickly stamps out the flaming sack.
The man with the broad grin races down the mountainside, pursued by a thunderbolt.
100 words. Inspired by this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt:
(I saw Mt. Olympus, obviously. Apologies to Mr. McCartney, and flaming poo sack pranksters everywhere.)