Mia stood on the threshold of the attic nursery. Light spilled through the half-drawn shades; dust motes danced to echoes of children’s laughter. The rocking horse swaying every so slightly as if someone just alighted from a ride through the countryside, slaying dragons and rescuing princesses. Crisp, white cotton nightclothes and rich velvety red robe laying on the play chest waiting for another someone to don them, then off to bed as the dollies already have. Soon both to be tucked in, prayers said, with fairy tale-filled heads, saying sleepy goodnights.
They were only hiding; ready to jump out and surprise her. Holding their breathes, not making a sound. Rustle of deep black taffeta dress against the door frame brought a prick of tears. They were already asleep; she would not find them here. Only their shadows, forever playing just out of her sight.
*Writing in the raw is pretty much unedited, unforeseen writing. Little manipulation or reconsideration before I click publish. Might start with a word, a phrase, an image (generated by a prompt or no) and travels from there. If I think about writing, about creativity, I don’t write, nor post. So, writing in the raw is my way of expressing something – not polished and polite – but always raw and often crude and quite possibly rude.