Cara was draped over the back of the couch, doodling in the decades-old grime on the windowsill when the light faltered. There was a susurration of noise, more felt than heard, and the closet and bedside light dimmed. She held her breath, waiting to see if it would come back up to normal. This time though, the lights stayed, three levels darker than before. Her heart skipped a couple of beats, fear pulsing in the thin skin of her temples. The shadows under the furniture yawed and reached scabrous-dark fingers a bit closer to where she sat. Any time now.


Last December, a writer friend invited folks to write dark Christmas stories. The catch? They had to be 100 words exactly, no more or less. I participated and had a lovely time with it. Here’s my entry.

Today, whilst running amok and doing my tasks, I had a bit of a scene replaying over and over in my head. It wouldn’t stop, it wouldn’t budge. Just this person, drawing in the grubby dust of a neglected windowsill.
But that was *all* there was; no story, no linking, no way to move it past. This is, I am convinced, a bit of a writer’s earworm. And like earworms, it wouldn’t go away until I said/sang/wrote it aloud.
But again, no real story. No real anything except this very vivid image. And then I recalled Loren’s 100 word story challenge.
Ooooh. Yeah. That might work. 

And so here you have it. My mental word-worm. I hope you enjoy it.

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