She sat quietly in the small space she’d discovered on the top floor of her uncle’s house. A box room, probably meant for storage, but there was a chair, some old boxes of books and small window overlooking the lake.
She was reflecting on recent events that had brought her here. The hectic comings and goings of visitors had given her an excuse to disappear for a while.
Grateful for the solace of the tiny room, she let her mind wander wherever it chose to go. A sudden knock on the door made her jump.
“Ella. Are you in there?”, said her cousin Joel.
She wondered how long before someone came looking.
“What are you doing?” He demanded. “We need to talk”
She replied reluctantly, “Joel, if you are a dreamer, come on in. If not, then you can just let me be. OK?”
Lillian is hosting Prosery Monday at D'Verse Poets tonight and has
prompted us with the line "If you are a dreamer, come on in".
The line is from Shel Silverstein’s poem, Invitation, as published
in his wonderful book, Where the Sidewalk Ends.
We are to write a piece of Flash Fiction no more that 144 words long,
excluding the title, and MUST use the prompt line as stated.
Image by Gaby Stein from Pixabay
This is my first response to a daily Three Things Challenge from the Haunted Wordsmith. Thanks for reading!
Somehow Sarah managed to turn her key in the lock as she struggled to hold on to the two overfilled grocery bags. Her head and shoulders damp from the unexpected light rain. Brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, she entered her small apartment and dumped the bags on the kitchen table. She thought again about moving to a larger place. Having a better-equipped kitchen would make all the difference to an aspiring chef like her. As she unloaded her groceries one of the eggplants, an ingredient for the Greek Moussaka she had promised to make for her neighbor, fell from her grasp and rolled across the floor, wedging itself in that annoying gap between the refrigerator and the pantry where it was impossible to retrieve anything. “Damn it” she seethed reaching for the broom. “Here we go again”. Down on her knees she pushed the handle of the broom into the tight space and tried to wiggle the eggplant free. It didn’t budge. She turned the broom around and attempted to sweep it from the narrow opening. As she repeatedly pulled on the handle it started to move. Inch by inch she slowly managed to dislodge it from its prison. One last yank on the broom and the eggplant flew across the tiny kitchen, smacked straight into a kitchen cabinet on the opposite wall, slithered downwards and landed with a loud splat on the tiled floor looking like a beached jellyfish.