I remember being pretty. Before the glowing rain. And the hiding. And the sickness. Losing my hair. My pretty, pretty hair.
I would be pretty again. Tonight. The elders called for a gathering. Maybe even a pairing. I put my face on with care. He would see. And choose me.
We’d look down at our feet, bashful. No one looked too closely. He’d grab my hand, and lead me to the pairing tank. It’d be dark there. Impossible to see our misshapen features. For tonight, I’m pretty again.
A writing prompted challenged me to tell a story that used the four images, and I had a flash of inspiration for this flash fiction.
