Enid never walked very fast any more but still slowed her steps as she passed the house. And dreamed of stopping to tie laces her shoes didn’t have; laces she couldn’t reach to tie if they did. Anything to increase the chance of seeing him. Or her. The object of her infatuation was multiple now. But the feeling hadn’t changed from when it was the handsome blond prefect at school. Excuses to feed her infatuation.
They thought she visited a grave. They could understand that; the deception shielded the lovesick banana of her soul hidden within her frail bent body.
So there you go. 100 words. But as I read what I’ve written, I realise that I have other, unfinished stories on the same theme. Maybe lovesick banana is actually a genre?
Rosalie Squires 