When Terry begins scrolling through her phone, none of the photos she finds are hers.
Only seven this morning. That’s a blessing. Sometimes there are as many as two dozen. At first (two months ago? four? more?) she’d deleted them as quickly as they came in. But now she checks each one.
There’s never anything extraordinary or striking about the photos, nothing indecent that would prove embarrassing if the people in them were identified. In fact there are no people in them.
She’s done everything possible – changed her ID, the app, her password, had the store clean the phone and return it to factory default, and even bought a new phone. Still the photos keep coming.
And her photos?
She no longer takes photos. They don’t show up on her phone anyway. The only photos she sees are someone else’s.
She goes through the seven photos as she eats her bowl of cornflakes. Taken from Continue reading
The Ringmaster permitted only three transformations a night. He felt more would be detrimental to her health. Transformation was an exhausting process, even for her, to whom it came so naturally. In any case, three, the Ringmaster maintained, had scientifically been proven to be a lucky number.
Optimism? Three whole pages? What sort of a school project is that? When I was your age, I was doing sums, finding the highest mountain in the world in the atlas, looking at leaves through a magnifying glass, important stuff like that. What will the world come to if all you kids do is think about optimism?
Susi Lovell 