The floor in the corridor was warped. The wood beneath the carpet lifted, jigged higher on the right, lower on the left, then dipped abruptly.
The trouble was, each time they passed, it never warped in quite the same way. If they stepped without thinking, without watching, they could find themselves foot in air where floor should be, or foot juddering onto floor, where air should be. Either way, they were pitching forward, knowing there was nothing they could do, no way to break the fall.
They told each other that the trick was to keep their eyes on the floor and remind each other to watch for the warp.
They did that, the whole family, even the littlest one, only two years four months three weeks and one day old.
“Watch for the warp! Look out, warp coming up,” they’d carol, turning the corner into the passage but then, without fail, the lights in the snowy square on the other side of the glass door at the end of the passage would catch their eyes.
They’d look up from the warped floor and gaze in delight. How brilliantly the lights blazed, and how joyfully they glanced off the falling snowflakes.
Each time the cry would go up: “Watch for the warp.” But each time they’d catch sight of the lights and forget all about the warp and there they’d go, tumbling head over heels, one after the other.
Thursday Blurts are quick-writes. The idea is to write whatever comes to mind, starting with something tangible, something I can see, smell, taste or hear or touch as I start to write. If the blurt turns out to be a story, great. If it doesn’t, tant pis.
Please note: all stories and material on this website, except for comments by others, are © Susi Lovell and must be credited as such.