This morning I was trying to put my hair in a bun. I explained to my dad that my hair says to me “No I don’t want to be a conformist” as I try to tie it up. He laughed and told me that stories were taking over my life- seeping into my speech- I couldn’t help but make them up. I was chuffed with this observation. Which gave me an idea for a story obviously…
The stories fell out of her
Most would writhe around on the carpet
Gasping then slumping
Piling up on top of one another
Occasionally one would stand up
She’d watch it nimbly stepping over the others
Watch it walk out the door
Perhaps it would even make it into the wild
freyawrightbrough 