The guy who’s been ogling her approaches.
‘You should get that looked at.’
Okay, not the line she expected.
‘Yeah, thanks. If I were worried, I’d talk to a doctor.’
She is worried, though. She came to the pool to get some exercise, but even swimming makes it hurt more.
‘You should be worried. And I am a doctor.’
‘It’s just a bruise.’
‘You’re awfully defensive about it.’
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘That’s what they all say. Let me take a look, at least. I’m Alex.’
Should he accept her conditions, knowing a doctor might come in handy.
I am not making this up: I had Gwen going to the pool before the Literary Lion provided the prompt. It’s part of the Saturday Serial, but I’d like to think it works as a standalone.
Should you be interested, you’ll find all previous instalments on the Serials page.
When they moved in, their possessions – in stark contrast to their plans for the future, which couldn’t be contained – fit in three bags.
She watches the movers load box after box into lorries. What a difference a few years make. She didn’t know they’d accumulated this much stuff until they had to pack up. Where did it all come from?
The house – situated in a prime catchment area – will hold their possessions and offer room for more. It’s huge; its mortgage’ll squeeze out what life there’s left in their plans.
She likes to pretend their future hasn’t been boxed yet.
Trust me to turn this bright, sunny photo prompt for FFfPP week 5 into a gloomy story, eh?
You shimmered like an oasis in the desert,
so I came to you.
Turns out you’re just a mirage.
From her bedroom window, Camilla looks down on the masses shuffling along Fifth Avenue. She doesn’t dare going out on the balcony – she’s seen them climb trees like chimps going after people in the park.
The house phone rings.
‘Ms Vandenberg, Mr. Preston is here for you.’
Camilla laughs at Colin’s formality. He’s the reason the residents haven’t been overrun, but he acts as if it were part of the job.
‘Did he bring the guns?’
‘He did indeed.’
‘Colin, won’t you come upstairs?’
‘My place is by the door, Ms. Vandenberg. We don’t want undesirables coming in, do we?’
Written for Microcosms 4, which provided the following prompts: character – princess; location: New York City; genre: horror.
When I grow up, I want to be a sunflower. I want to stand in one place and turn my face with the sun. I want to be tall and bright and make people smile.
Dad says sunflowers will have a better chance than us. But by the time I’ve grown up, even they may need too much water. And they don’t actually turn with the sun. Cacti grows tall, he says. I’ll get to see them soon as we’ll move again and this time, it’ll be the desert.
Cactus, sunflower – I’ll take it, as long as it has roots.
‘X marks the spot,’ she says, voice high-pitched and breathless. She points upward. ‘This is where they’ll come from.’
‘Alright, love. I’d better take you back.’
Shame, it’s such a lovely day. But I mustn’t let her become agitated.
She grabs my arm.
‘No, you have to take me away. You keep saying you want me to live. Everyone here will die. Leave me here and I will die.’
When she presents her argument like this, I want to believe she’s making progress.
‘I’ll have a word with them, love.’
I meant it, I will. Her medication needs adjusting again.
New running shoes, meet old bones.
If you’re wondering what this six-word nonsense is, you clearly missed yesterday’s One Year Anniversary post.
Are first anniversaries more significant than the following ones?
In a way, yes. During the first year, you don’t know what you’re doing. You’re learning all the time. You find out which of your expectations are on the money (not all that many) and you discover stuff you’d never have imagined. You find out if you can do this.
And maybe the highs seem higher, the lows lower in this first year-long roller coaster ride?
From now on, you’ve been there before. You have a history. You’re not the rookie anymore.
Look like you know what you’re doing, will you?
I remember the day I chucked my Chucks.
They had holes in the soles, the fabric’d worn so thin they should have fallen apart. Neither made me want to part with them.
It took Mum to come into my room and put her foot down.
‘Enough is enough,’ she said, ‘those shoes of yours are a disgrace.’
‘You don’t understand what they mean to me – they’re part of my identity.’
‘I understand better than you think. Let me show you something.’
In a box in the attic, her own Chucks, worn to pieces, lovingly wrapped in tissue paper.
What, it’s already week 4 of FFfPP? How time flies…