100 word challenge.

1. moving day.

Mother tells you not to play in the crystal forest. It’s taken decades, millenia, eons to grow. Her thoughts about time––as something that matters; something that, given the chance, would demand recompense for the destruction of its wares––are amusing.

But time isn’t like that.

The trees of the crystal forest gleam in rows around the long table by the stove. You sniff a stem. How do timeless fruits taste?

Time is sunlight sneaking through the garden door.

Big brown boxes loaded onto trucks.

Sounds of glass and feet tripping down the hall.

A cat fleeing the scene of the crime.

2. sessions.

Tuesday was as good a day as any to ruin her life. Something simple about Tuesday; something clean. All the better to lay out the shit bothering her; let him stew in her wrath through the work day. Though she had the number committed to memory, she held firm to the scrap of paper bearing the digits. Steady.

She’d give him hell, the know-it-all. Teach him to make a fool of her. Show him she can process whatever she goddamn needs to. It rang twice before a pause, a breath: “Doctor Crowley’s office.”

“I’d like to schedule an appointment, please.”