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The Blatherings Of A Blitherer

100 words: Wren’s tattoos


It had been a long day. Wren closed up the office, made sure all her equipment was properly sterilized and laid out for the next day, that supplies were replenished, that she was ready to hit the ground running the next day. Satisfied, she turned out the lights and locked up, heading home. The day was nice, sunny and warm, and she took an overland route instead of the tunnels. They were fast in the grip of spring, warm blue days and green fields abounded, but she still felt a claustrophobic dread of the tunnels. It would lessen and be gone by the time summer arrived, she knew. It was not true claustrophobia, but rather a symptom of cabin-sickness. She knew this rationally. But she still wasn’t going to set foot in the tunnels if she could possibly help it, for the time being. She took the long way home, walking with her eyes closed and her face tipped up to the sunlight in places where the path was straight and nobody else was around.

She came to her dome after a pleasant ten minute walk, keyed her way into the building, and took the lift down to her floor. She had already unfastened her bracers by the time the door to her apartment irised open. She pulled them off as she walked in, locked them, dropped them on the kitchen’s island as she walked to the bathroom. She left a crumpled trail of clothing as she walked, stepping naked into the bathroom. She sealed the door, tucked the toilet and sink into their compartments in the wall, and pulled out the shower head. The water was hot and lovely and it torrented over her, washing the day away. She shampooed her hair, lathered up a cloth and ran it over her body, and rinsed off. The entire process took slightly under ten minutes. She tucked away the shower, pulled the sink out again, and cleaned her teeth with one  towel wrapped around her body and another around her hair.

She padded barefoot (another luxury, like the sunny day and the hot water) to her bedroom and tumbled onto the bed. She keyed the windowscreen to show an image of the front lawn and the mirkins tumbling amid the tall dark grass, and linked her hands behind her head, just stretching out and relaxing. The towel around her head was damp and rough against the skin of her hands and forearms,  prickling into the soft flesh everywhere but the black bands and barcodes that circled her wrists, announcing her qualifications. She sat up, her towel falling off of her head and her hair springing out like so much reddish brown dandelion fluff, and rubbed her wrists with each hand. She’d woolgathered enough. It was time to dress and look over the latest published literature on quarantine procedures.


477 words

posted under 100 words, corwalch

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