I was asked to write a story starter for a writing workshop that used the concept of “pop”. A bunch of kids will write the next 1000 words for the chance to win sweet prizes (I have no idea if the prizes are any good).
Can you hear me?
I locked myself in a bubble last night and can’t get out.
And now I’m bored and it’s hot and damp in here. And I’m awfully alone and I’m just starting to feel a little bit scared. I mean, I know I locked myself in, so I’m sure I can get out. I just can’t seem to work out how I got here in the first place. It’s a bit like when the sticky tape sticks to itself and you know there has to be a tiny invisible edge but you can spend hours running your fingers along the surface trying to find it.
So that’s exactly what I did. Around and around and around. Probably for hours, I got every dizzy.
And then the bubble popped and I landed with a thud on the concrete.
I’m not a big fan of crash landings. I’m not a big fan of landings at all. I’d much rather continue in perpetual motion and not have to face that sickening stomach lurch when you prepare to stop and you wonder if you’ll stop in time, or at all. Doesn’t help that whilst most people seem to grow into their bubbles and learn to use them just like a super duper fandangly pair of arms or legs; I never quite seemed to get the knack. Well into my teens I’d wake up in my bubble and wonder what the hell was going on and why I was encapsulated in a latex ball rocketing through the neighbourhood. I’ve destroyed a fair few hedge displays and torn down enough washing in my time.
Anyway, I picked myself up and inspected the damage. Grazed knees, bruised pride and no idea whatsoever where I’d landed this time.