“Let’s run away together.” He reached to stroke her hair.
Her hands and feet started to tingle, a warning that sleep would take them. Not now, she pleaded inwardly, not yet.
He tried to reason with her: “We’re finally in the same place at the same time.”
She squeezed her hands into fists. Release. Repeat. The tingling spread to her forearms, her shoulders, the blood draining from her body.
She listened for her heart and heard nothing. Let me tell him, she willed. Her skin splintered, hardening into bark.
“You’ve changed.” He exhaled out of his angry eyes and turned to leave.
The last gasp of air escaped from her lungs as her organs solidified. Roots grew from her soles and chained her to the ground. She heaved her wooden chest, trying to scream, her face lost in a canopy of leaves.
Guys, it’s spring. I smelled fresh cut grass this morning for the first time in months. Spring, as I got to witness it in all its crisp glory on the drive to Iconoclast Koffiehuis, informed my first prompt: trees and transformation.
I got my second prompt from Matt. He suggested “wooden chest” and “danish” (only because he was eating a danish at the time, so I disregarded it entirely). What was really interesting, though, was that “wooden chest” instantly gave me my last line, and I built the story backwards from there. This wasn’t for an extra challenge, it was just the way it happened. And obvious connections to mythology can be surmised from the title.
Now to finish enjoying my coffee and (half-eaten) danish. Until tomorrow.