Some days you feel every second of your age. Becca looked at the balloons in her hand and back towards the building. Seven years hard labor, or so it felt, and she was still working in the same department in the same job for the same company.
A breeze lifted her hair and tugged at the balloons. They struggled against her grip, the ribbons seesawing in her hand as if each wished for freedom.
"What are you doing, Becca?" The voice reached out to her but the woman stared up at the floating orbs. The sun glowed through them and one, green, plump, and shorter than the others, spun and dipped.
What was she doing? Why was she still here? Was it inertia or fear? Across from the steel and glass office building old brick storefronts shouldered together in the slanting sun. An alley snaked between them, dim and mysterious.
What would happen if she followed it?
"Becca? We need those balloons!" The voice rose again but her feet were already moving. Each stride lengthened and a ribbon slipped her grip with every fall.
She was going.


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AislingWeaver (joined about 12 years ago)
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Aisling Weaver has been plucking at the threads of dreams for decades but only recently has dared capture the senses with words. She writes from a tiny corner of the world known to few on stolen time and borrowed inspiration. By day chained to a desk when set free she delves the shadowy recesses where desire, need, lust and passion meet the spectrum of emotion.

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