Flora liked to press her nose up against the workshop windows and watch the men working. In summer, when the doors were open, she played on the threshold, making mountains from the sawdust and stick people from splinters.

Workers fed planks to the machines and pressed each sheet, until blonde curls fell around their feet, as if the men were hairdressers, not carpenters. The boxes they hammered together were stacked five-high, awaiting collection. Flora tried to imagine her mother laid out in one of them, but the picture wouldn’t stick; even after five years, her mother was still out there somewhere, still swimming.

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For those who don’t know how Friday Fictioneers works, this picture (this time supplied by me!) is our inspiration for our weekly online writing group hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Click here to read other people’s amazing stories or to join in. And please comment below with any suggestions for improvement on mine.