Happy Friday everyone! Apologies for my silence this week, but here we have the 100 word challenge for this week from Julia’s Place. This is in her own words.. “ …the red box… For our non-UK writers, this week sees the budget being announced and much is made of the Red Box that the Chancellor carries the budget in to the Houses of Parliament to make the announcement.”
I am currently moving into a new home, so unfortunately I haven’t had time to put something together this week. However, the fantastic LimebirdKate, LimebirdLaura and LimebirdSally have some great pieces this week! Enjoy!
LimebirdKate
I spy the red box in the closet
hidden behind scarves and a catcher’s mitt.
When I see red, I think Christmas or Valentine’s day
but it’s June and it isn’t my birthday.
I note the curled ribbon, the size, and shape.
What occasion is he about to celebrate?
I should close the closet door
but I’m like a kid in a candy store.
I must know what he bought for me
so I untie the ribbon. I can’t wait to see.
I stare at a necklace of rubies, red like fire.
But my birthstone is blue, cold sapphire.
LimebirdLaura
“What’s in the box?” Stephanie asked.
Jerry shrugged, “Which box?”
“The red box!” Stephanie pointed to it in his hands.
“Which red box?” Jerry began looking around.
Stephanie smacked her forehead, “The only red box I see…right there!” She began frantically pointing to Jerry’s hands.
“I don’t see a red box…”
“Right there, in your cotton-picking hands!” Stephanie was turning as red as the box.
Still shrugging, Jerry held the box high above his head, “This box?”
“YES, for the love of all that is good in this world, that cotton-picking box!”
“It looks green to me. Of course, I am color-blind.”
LimebirdSally
My hand shakes as I hand over my credit card. Ten thousand pounds more debt and for what? The promise of inner beauty? How can that compete with the darling green Louboutins clenching my feet? But Red-Box is so ‘in’ right now.
I step into Red-Box where I’m immediately thrust through a portal into war-torn Afghanistan. Death taunts me over my Gucci-clad shoulder as the surrounding poverty launches an entirely unwarranted assault on my senses. I vomit into my Prada clutch.
Ten minutes later I’m spat back out. Shaking the dirt from my Armani scarf, I demand a full refund.
Limebird Writers 