Writing Prompt 57: Hotel
The other night as we sat watching some boring show on the telly, a young man wandered into our back garden.
I pulled back the blind to see him walk across our patio, squinting in the bright outside light, looking a bit lost. He definitely did not look like someone trying to find a way into our house.
He was last seen, on camera, climbing the back gate to fall heavily over the other side. He picked himself up, stumbled past the front door and out onto the road, where my husband watched him swaying as he walked away with that defining gait of someone three sheets to the wind.
We figured he was probably a student who, in his intoxicated mind, thought there was a shortcut between our house and next door. There is. Sort of. But he picked the wrong direction.
This week, write a story about being lost. Your story might be about being in an unfamiliar city, or in a different life than expected or lost in a relationship that has begun to grow stale. Or maybe one of your character's is beginning to lose their mind.
As usual, begin with the photo above and see where it takes you.
Maybe your story isn't about being lost at all. It's all good.
Until next time.
Meet Me Here
Sandra leant forward in the chair to reach her drink. Another lime and soda.
She twisted a tendril of hair around her forefinger three times before letting it fall and tucking it behind her ear. She crossed one leg over the other, lifting and dropping her raised foot up and down. She’d arrived early and had taken a seat, glad of the space, but now people were arriving and all she could see was a wall of backs.
One woman perched on the arm of the chair Sandra sat in, her soft bottom almost touching her arm. Another woman laughed and dropped into the chair opposite, swinging her hair over one shoulder. Sandra smiled and tried to catch the woman's eye, hoping for conversation but the woman turned to face the man sitting on the edge of the table in front of her.
Sandra sighed and flicked each fingernail one at a time. Out of the corner of her eye, a host carrying a large tray of drinks in long-stem glasses made their way carefully across the floor.
Complimentary bubbles.
Sandra put down her lime and soda, stood up and looked over the crowd, deciding the best route through all the people. The mass of voices and laughter and music all merged into one mass of anxious humming in her ears. She slipped through the bodies, turning her shoulders sideways between the narrow gaps, apologising whenever she caught someone’s eye.
She reached the host, smiled and picked up two full glasses. One for her and another in case, you know, she met anyone. Now she stood in the middle of the event, holding two glasses of champagne with an itch developing where the lacy edge of her knickers curved around her buttocks. She wriggled, trying to alleviate the irritation without drawing attention to herself, finding some relief.
She sipped at one of the glasses of champagne, this time trying not to make eye contact with anyone. She closed her eyes for a moment feeling her tight muscles begin to relax and warm. She breathed in and out slowly.
By the time her best friend Dolores found her, Sandra was flushed and red-eyed from the complimentary bar.
Story first posted April 2019 // Photo:Tanya Clarke 2018
