This is the 96th installment of a 100-day challenge to write a new vignette every morning.
She cried diamonds. The jewels built a moat around her feet, and when she shrieked at her friends to do something, they’d only stand there. They could no more cross that ring of diamonds than she could return them to her eyes. She could sweep them aside, but god, they were dazzling.
She laughed razor blades. They shot from her mouth in a staccato, and everyone dove for cover. In the inevitable calm afterwards, they’d patch the wallpaper and mop up blood. They’d fortify the furniture with plastic covers for next time if they had any sense, but they didn’t. They always left the plush sofa front and center, ready to be torn to shreds.
She dreamt sunlight. No one ever saw it but her.
Miles Away 