LondonUnited Kingdom WC2N 4LF
April 24, 2012
I'm working on a novel about a grown woman who, after her mother dies, travels the world, and sperads the ashes in every destination she stops. It's more involved than that, but that's the short of it.
She was dieting, and all day long it was making her crazed. Her weight, she was sure, was the reason she lived alone, the reason she'd never been on a proper date, even though she was 32. For the third time that week, someone at work asked her if she was pregnant. She was mid-bite, scooping up morsels of a too-sweet birthday cake from the bakery next door to her office (they specialised in dress-shaped cakes with Barbie's stuck in the middle). That week, she committed herself to her diet, but halfway in, she started to falter. She was on her drive home when she spotted the fried chicken joint. It was a mile away, but her eyes wer glued. She was starved -- all she had all day was some lemonade and a pinch of cayenne pepper. As she got closer, her car slowed, and all she could see was Pies 'n' Thighs. She exhaled, and passed it, swiveling her head to take in one last look. It was then that she heard a crunch. Her last thoughts were, "mmm... deep fried skin."
Freelance journalist, and American (hopefully you won't hold that against me). Work, and pitching to get new work, often competes with my more creative pursuits.