I fell off my pink cloud with a thud. – Elizabeth Taylor
Jen leans on the railing, cigarette in hand. Smoke hangs like dragon’s breath around her. The window screeches on the track as Tracy opens it. Walking behind Jen, she kisses her gently on the neck.
Your mom thinks she can still turn you straight huh?
With crinoline, it seems.
Tracy grabs the cigarette from Jen’s hand, mashes it in the plant.
I hate when you smoke.
I hate when she sends me dresses.
We’re okay, you know.
I know, Honey.
Jen removes the dress from the railing, letting it fall. Descent, prolonged by the springtime breeze.
100 Words/ Genre: Hell, I don’t know.
Thank you Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers. It is such a fun, crazy, and sometimes discouraging exercise in discipline. I enjoy it immensely. Kudos and criticisms are most welcome. Bring it on!