Arms, legs, the usual.
I also seem to be running the site.
I may get around to writing some actual stories at some point.
The young woman staggered backwards into the wall – the people in the room idly glanced over at the sound of the impact and got back on with their business – and slid into a sitting position. Elbows on knees, arms crossed, forehead on arms, she sat, trembling, for several minutes before the first sob could be heard. After the first came another and another in an endless stream.
The room, no stranger to suffering, remained quiet: getting involved was always complicated, messy and difficult, often requiring far more time than could be considered reasonable and frequently demanding the commitment of resources so productively used elsewhere. She sobbed on, her sleeves growing heavy and chill.
Why here? Why now? Questions ripped through her mind, their jagged edges tearing ugly rents in the shattered ruins of hope. Things they would never do lay around her mind as a fallen house of cards.
The tiniest rustle of taffeta pierced her silence and she looked up, at long last, before dissolving afresh in his arms.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
Comments (3 so far!)
Average reader rating 5.00/5
I can't help but be a little confused but nonetheless this is extremely emotional and nicely pinned together.
- #383 Posted 7 years ago
The appearance of the "him" in the story is unexpected and raises interest, especially as it seems to be implied that he has garments made of taffeta. Given that apparently others in that room are aloof, and that the room itself seems to have a personality of its own in a somewhat Virginia Woolfish manner, this figure signaled by taffeta seems to be different, known to the crying woman, already involved. I am intrigued.
- #586 Posted 7 years ago
- 5 out of 5
I forgot to give a rating!
- #587 Posted 7 years ago
- 5 out of 5
Author's prompt text:
- Published 7 years ago.
- Story viewed 20 times and rated 1 times.
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