[A work of original fiction by Jamie Barringer, Copyright 2014, All rights reserved.]
It was just a pink and yellow granny square. That’s what Allison kept telling herself, anyway. People make them, and they stick them together to make things, and sometimes there are squares left over. Maybe it was an extra that fell out of someone’s purse, or maybe it fell out of a box when someone was driving by with all their stuff piled on the back of their truck on moving day. Or it was something given to a child, and they lost it. It was just a granny square.
Still, Allison stared at it in helpless horror for a long time as she stood and waited for her bus. The sun poured all its fiery venom down onto that stretch of treeless road, and sweat streamed down Allison’s back and made her bra stick to her body uncomfortably, patches of soaked cotton shirt plastering themselves to her skin and rivers of sweat tracing their lines down her dusty legs, and she noticed nothing but that bit of pink and yellow cotton until her bus cast its merciful shadow over her and she could at last escape into the air-conditioned belly of that glorious metal cannister on wheels. She breathed a sigh of relief as she felt the doors close behind her, and gratefully settled into the first available seat, closing her eyes and trying not to think about the lacy square outside.
[I am writing this week’s story a few paragraphs at a time. For part 2, click here.]