Open Workshop: Nov. 5

She leaned in and the boys’ canoe flipped, taking the girls’ canoe with it.

She leaned in and kept leaning, until the leaning was rotating, and her world was topsy turvy.

She leaned in and discovered her body carried weight.

She leaned in and he leaned in too, whispering in her ear the name of his oldest son, the one who had died in the war.

She leaned in and cursed everyone who had ever told her not to.

She leaned in and promptly lost her balance; now instead of leaning forever she was falling forever; she preferred the falling, so much to see whipping past her and nothing to ground her.

She leaned in and then she leaned out and she shook it all about; she did the hokey pokey and she turned herself around — that’s what its all about.

She leaned in and laughed — I wish I could tell you her laugh was beautiful or charming, but it wasn’t; it was just a laugh — and that’s the moment I discovered my own bellows-of-the-stomach unhappiness.

She leaned in and faced the mirror head on, watching herself as she stuck the forceps towards the back of her mouth and thrusted her own tooth from its socket.

She leaned in and tossed the boy a quarter, remembering the taste of peppermint candy melting in her mouth — a memory she had thought was lost to her, but was now decidedly present and commandeering.

She leaned in and put all her weight on the ball of her left foot, like her Aunt Maisie had taught her, pivoting around and landing a punch square on her sister-turned-tiger’s jaw.

She leaned in and danced.

She leaned in and touched her lips to his nose; she was his mom and he was her son, at least for tonight, and together they were one simple boop on the nose.

She leaned in and stepped into the light, demanding her dark skin be the only contrast in the room.

Prompt: Write a story that starts with “She leaned in and…”.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.