Faded paper drooped from the walls like slouching down-and-outs, and a mattress curled up in a corner, ashamed of its stained nakedness. Flora held her breath – not from the stench – but from the idea that Ingrid might once have slept here, under the old newspapers; their corners flapping from the broken window’s breeze.
She kicked at a pile of dirty clothes, refusing to believe what the police had told her and the evidence in her pocket. The rags shifted, moaned. Flora jumped, put her hand to her mouth.
‘Ingrid?’ she said.
But the sunken-cheeked face that peered out at her was a man’s.
For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by Mary Shipman) is our inspiration for our weekly online writing group hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Each story is only about 100 words long, so why not read a few others: click here to read some more or to join in.
And please comment below with any suggestions on mine, or just to show you’ve visited.