Lost without a hand to hold, Shelly, looked both ways down the street. Dropped down from the curb into an alley between fender and bumper and peeked her dark brown eyes along the concrete corridor.

A dark station wagon rolled by, riding heavy and low. Momentarily, her reflection stared back at her in the tinted window, haloed in the streetlight. A brick caught in her throat and she swallowed, but it wouldn't go away.

Shelly turned stood there, arms out, resting on hood and trunk and swallowed and gulped and shook her head and bounced up and down, hoping the lump would fall. It didn't. She bent over and stared at the buckles on her shoes. Hoping it might come out that way. It didn't.


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CraigTowsley (joined over 11 years ago)
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I think this site is like a power juicer to the armadillo-skinned oranges of writer's block.

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Lost, without a hand to hold.
Prompt suggested by b23cml


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