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A Writer's Journey of a Secluded Mind

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It began as any other day as Lucy walked out of the house. The groggy-not-quite-sure-she-was-ready-to-go-out-and-about type of day.
“If my head wasn’t attached, I’d lose it.” And promptly that lighter than life feeling of being quite not there ensued and Lucy watched her head drift away.
“I’m going to need that,” musing, Lucy got in the car, readying to go to work. Looking out the window, “Nope, gone now.”
Saying it out loud, Lucy realized I really can’t believe my eyes. Silly me, my head, mirror check, “Yep. Still attached.”
She could feel them. Feel them move as they tried to be anywhere but in the meeting. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Did they really think this was going to be a good idea? Did the head of the department really think everyone who worked so hard on this project was going to sit back and accept because he turned the project in a week late, they would not get a bonus.
Lucy sat and listened, listened to her lead inform the President that the fault was not with the staff but…
Well there goes the left one.
And now she half listened, tried to follow the conversation, but it really was too many voices at once.
And there goes the right.
“Do you really think it’s a good idea to sit there and wiggle your ears while they’re arguing over our pay?”
“Nervous tick.” Lucy covered the ear closest to her coworker – nope it was where it was supposed to be.
“It is not that windy!” Lucy tried to push her hair back from her head, but the long strands whipped around as if the small gust of wind was a level five hurricane. The wind slowed, as did the long strands, leaving her hair in disarray.
Lucy waived in greeting to the technician sitting behind the front counter at the nail salon. Making a straight line for the lavatory located just to the side of the entrance.
A quick check, empty. “Really, did this have to happen.”
She started the improbable task of taming her hair, only the quiet threat of cutting it all off made the process any shorter. Even, then she was sure there were strands out of place where she couldn’t see.
Let alone the chunk that would not remove itself from beneath the collar at the back of her shirt.
Lucy wiggled her feet out of the sandals, glad to have the day done. Glad to be home and no longer having to try to keep track of everything. Slowly her head floated to the ceiling, done for the weekend, with her ears detaching drifting towards the radio, music on low. Sitting down, Lucy felt her hair move, making its way to the shelf to settle down for the night. She settled, feet on the ottoman in front of her, a nice quiet dark room.
“Behave, I just had you painted,” was the comment as the toes with freshly adorned toenails scampered off to get into to mischief.
I really can’t believe them, my toenails. Not even a minute in the door and they’re scuffed. This had been noticed as the pinkies tried to hide behind the larger toes on their way to the other room.
“Really, it is hard to keep myself all together if you don’t help.”

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C. Claiborne Ray, Born to be a Wiggler, The New York Times, Jan. 16, 2017, https://nyti.ms/2iDEfGX (accessed July 27, 2020)


<<Writingprompt.com via Twitter 7.15.2020 “I couldn’t believe my eyes or my ears, or my hair. Or my toenails.”

“Are you going to tell them?”
“Nope”
“Why not?”
Mary wiggle her fingers at the infant looking over its mother’s shoulder. Holding a finger to her lips when the baby’s eyes widened in fright. The wink received was enough for her to know the infant meant no harm.
“See!”
“Shhh,” Mary turned to her sister. “It’ll be fine. No harm, they have an infant and the infant has a home.”
Hands on hips, Anastan glared at her sister, leaning down to whisper shout, “But that is a 400-year-old dragon!”
The sisters paused when they felt a large hand on each of their shoulders, “And neither of you lovely dears will tell my wife.” The large man, similar in looks to the women, for he was their brother, walked between them to pluck the infant in question from his wife’s arms. Kissing the little one and then his wife before turning to the other guests scattered around the living room.
“Well I never!” proceeded Anastan’s flounce into the kitchen.
Mary merely raised an eyebrow at the hatch-ling now toothily looking at her over her brother’s shoulder. You are going to be a handful. It was the eyes widening and the rearing back in shock that let her know a handful and gifted. The imp. Thankfully, the family, minus a few unaware, would, should… might be able to handle a dragon? Raise a dragon?

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<< Writingprompt.com via Twitter 7.15.2020 A baby isn’t quite what it seems >>

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