Prompt: What is your shrink really thinking when you tell him about your day, your life, your hopes, your fears?
I can feel my panties burrowing deep as I keep my eyes plastered on the increasing numbers next to the elevator door. It makes me silently giggle and shift my weight from right to left. I can feel my face flush when I remember the man standing behind me. His presence makes my shoulders hunch, slightly. Ever so slightly. Why am I holding my breath? Why is the floor to the therapist’s office so far away?
When I hear a ding and the doors open, I give a polite smile as I step off. The man only has a view of my back. Why did I smile? The sound of my stiletto heels on the marble floor makes me shudder, slightly. Ever so slightly. I am not accustomed to wearing shoes, let alone these six inch monstrosities. Why did I wear these? Why did I purchase these specifically for tonight? The hallway is endless and the lights are so bright. My eyes tear with feeling so exposed. Passing doors to the right and left, their numbers blur together. My destination being the door at the end of the hall. A red door. A numberless door.
I ignore the buzzer on my right side, just for a moment. The palm of my hand, fingers spread open, glides up the length of the door, slightly. Ever so slightly. The side of my face presses against it, breathing paused as I try to pick up anything audible on the other side. Silence. Comforting silence. Exhale. Eyes close, mouth parting, neck twisting as my whole body gently pushes up against the door. Inhaling and holding it, my breast feels tight against a preposterously short black dress. As consciousness begins to slip, I stumble backwards and into reality again. In embarrassment I quickly press the buzzer with my head hanging, slightly. Ever so slightly. With a click the knob turns. With a minor groan the door gently opens.
The lighting is dim inside, for which I am eternally grateful. The carpet plush on my hobbled feet. A single pane of glass encompasses the entire wall on the far side. It is night. Did I know it was already nightfall? A sea of city lights gaze up below me. The expansive room is empty save for two low-backed armchairs in a dueling position, a standing lamp between them. Why have I come here? Should I turn and run? Should I throw myself from this colossal window to the illuminated maze below?
My body has tripled in weight as I make my way towards the chair on the right. Does it matter which chair I take as mine? As the backs of my legs make an awful sticking sound to the leather chair I can feel my palms begin to sweat, slightly. Ever so slightly. Am I having a heart attack? Will I urinate on myself? Or worse, on this chair? I don’t see a clock, but I can hear the relentless ticking.
The slightly shivering shadow, uncomfortable in stiletto shoes and a tight black dress, sitting across from me utters a sound
Where shall we begin?
I mumble, slightly. Ever so slightly
You tell me.
First, an update that I have neglected to post about for the last couple of weeks. My husband and I collaborated on another comic for the current issue of Magic Bullet.It's a free newspaper, so if you're in the Washington DC metro area be sure to stop by your local comic shop or independent book store and pick one up. Our contribution is called Threadbare and the character design pulls heavily from my last doll. Our comic, Concurrent, from the last issue is now posted in it's entirety under the writings section of my website.
A few months ago I purchased a book with 642 writing prompts. Initially my idea was to write a quick flash fiction using one of the prompts as a starting point once a day. Well, needless to say, the book has been collecting dust on my desk all this time.I kicked myself today, opened the book and picked a prompt at random. We shall see how many consecutive days I am capable of keeping this up.
I will post all of the pieces here on the blog - the tag 642 will be added to these posts.
Prompt : The talk-show host
Languishing in this rotting chair, my aggravation releasing in the form of sweat beading in my inner thighs. Self-loathing causing my skin to itch, burn. The television is deafening. Awful, coma inducing daytime programming. A woman on the screen bleats like a goat. Pulled, tucked, smothered by make-up and a dress two sizes too small. I chew my lip with the excitement of potentially witnessing her absurd stilettos causing her ankle to snap. The oversized fake eyelash desperately clinging on to her wrinkled left eyelid, flailing about as she incessantly blinks. Unnaturally bright teeth cause my stomach to churn. All of this effort gone to waste. These days with our high definition, there is no hiding that she is a withered shrew desperate to pass for thirty years younger. Her audience smacking their hands together like a group of dumb, blind seals makes me loathe her. I feel utterly assaulted by her.
But the remote… it’s out of my reach. And I just don’t care enough to move.