This is my DWP, trying to continue writing, to work on character and scene building so I can start writing a book. 🙂
The first few prompts will be pieces I’ve published on Facebook, to archive them on my own media.
“Write about a white dress”
Hundreds of staccato squeaks fill the warehouse as hangers moved along endless rows of clothing.
Only fifteen minutes left, Ashley sighed.
She dusted a plumb blazer that had fallen on the floor and returned it to a rack nearby; pushing aside a pair of checkered woolen pants and a bright pink halter top, which obviously fell out of fashion two decades ago.
She hummed and continued to work as the frenzy around her climaxed.
The last 15 minutes always took the longest. Her sore feet reminded her she was finishing up a double, doors opened at five.
There is always a line on “Dollar a Pound” Tuesdays. Now the lines re-emerge as customers wait to check out at the weight stations.
Ashley moved to the next aisle and picked up a dress. The sequined embroidery along its alabaster neckline was worn and begining to fray. The white satin had yellowed with age, but looked regal — dignified.
She reached for a sturdy coat hanger to reshelve the glittered frock, but the strapless corset slipped off the arms and plopped down onto the tulle underneath.
The weight of the metal boning slowly pulled the dress down to the right, kinking a flower on the waistband.
This dress… she picked it up and gently fingered the silver filigree, tracing the curling of stems and branches until her fingers rested on a pearl, the center of a flower — one of hundreds.
This dress was someone’s happily ever after, maybe even a dowery, Ashley thought. But now it’s forgotten, funneled through countless charity clothing stores, only to end up here.
This place was an outfit’s last hope, Ashley thought, as she surveyed the vultures waiting in line.
New clothing arrived daily by the truck load, and every week she hosted a bargain day to move product.
Everything left behind doesn’t get re-gifted.
Frowning, Ashley tucked the dress under her arm and headed toward her office.
She draped the dress over a chair and watched the last customers leave, carrying several shopping carts filled to the brim with black trash bags.
Empty hangers swayed among left over garments, most of the remaining clothes were scattered on the floor below.
“Memories do not deserve to die like this.”