A short a day project

I wrote my first story! I will write one a day for as long as I can muster the inspiration. I really like today's. Not as long as I planned but these are shorts for my blog for reading with a cuppa. Enjoy dear readers....ps I have not done a proper edit as I need to get ready for vodka....but you get the idea.


She woke up and it took several minutes to recollect the horror of the night before. There was a period of involuntary inertia that is familiar with the morning after. She had been very drunk she recalled. One of those lunch time events that fused with the night. The sounds of laughter and the lights had seduced her. There was music and dancing and it seemed like freedom. She had forgotten herself and thrown caution into a fast wind. It had felt good, new and brave. She moved and the pain shot through her legs and ribs. Her head hurt. She felt her swollen lips and there was dried blood in her hair. She was afraid as she looked about the small room from the cold floor, now sticky with her secretions. The club had been busy and she had lost her group of friends. A guy had offered her a drink but she had bought her own. She had money with this new job. She was a success. Her parents were proud. But she had made a gross error last night and now everyone would pay. Her family would be shamed. Everyone would know what she had done. A guard rattled the hatch at the heavy metal door. A dish and carton were pushed through without words. The guard stared at her with a look of disgust and slammed the hatch closed. It was a protein breakfast she recognised from the earth shuttle she had travelled on several weeks before. She opened the sachet and the air made the contents swell to six times its size. Kelloggs had the monopoly on breakfasts even on this godforsaken planet. The food and drink would completely replenish what she had lost in the drunkenness of the night, minerals and vitamins and essential body salts. Her physical wounds would heal quickly. But there was more at stake here and she knew it. Another tray. Another guard. A woman this time looking at her and shaking her head in disgust. The tray was heavier than the last. There were medical wipes, that would disinfect as well as clean, and an outfit. It was small and tight. The boots were very high and there were stockings that would show lower than the dress. She banged on the door calling for help. The man opened the hatch and stared menacingly...... ‘The clothes don’t fit me’, she said. ‘Those are the clothes you have been allocated for court. They are the right size for your crime. You should hurry up; you are about to be called’. He looked at her as if she was diseased and slammed the hatch back down. She thought he said something, ‘dirty something’, but his words were lost in the cacophony of the jail.

She was ready. The guards took her into the court. There was a crowd in the gallery who gasped as she entered the pristine space. A woman sat on a raised platform and banged a hammer to the desk demanding quiet. The people hushed and stared. She felt exposed as the fabric of the tiny dress barely covered her breasts or crouch. The boots were so high that she struggled to keep up with the guards. They took her to a plinth where she was made to kneel. Her white skin showed brightly under the stark lights through crisscross fishnet stockings. She heard the sentence. ‘You will be permanently tattooed on your forehead.’ She was taken to the medical room where a masked man was ready with the tattoo gun. Four assistants readied themselves. ‘Now there is no point in struggling, the clamps will hurt the more you wriggle about.’ But she did struggle. Fear tore her from sensibility and she screamed and thrashed. Her head was placed in a clamp which blocked all audio. Suddenly, with one sense removed, she was in a surreal place. Was this actually happening? She couldn’t tell. Dark figures surrounded her and strapped her into place. She heard blood through veins and the silhouette of her rib cage gasping for air. But then it started and it was real. The pain of the tattoo was excruciating. The hammering needles bore into her skull with bullet force and laser precision. Medical washes mixed with her tears and ran down her neck. And so, she gave in. Processes happened quickly here. It reminded her of London in the 2090s when the escalators would jam because of the sheer weight of the people. It was a treadmill of hope. She had been glad to get out. People here were also strangers; pilgrims passing on escalators looking for salvation or a better life, some raison d’etre with cream. She blinked in the natural light of a hot summer’s day. It was always summer here. The wound on her forehead was already scabbing over. She felt its form but could not decipher the letters. She was on the shuttle. People looked at her and her tattoo, her new brand. Through a tunnel she saw it for the first time. FRIGID A girl opposite, perhaps sixteen, smiled. Her hair partially covered her word. The she saw it. BULLY And a kind face to the right WHORE They were sisters on a train. © 2019 Pasha de la Mare

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