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The Ladies Walking Club by Caitlin Corrigan | Word Riot
Flash Fiction

July 29, 2017      

The Ladies Walking Club by Caitlin Corrigan

Imagine a cube.

Imagine a woman inside, and bed sheets. Picture the photographs framed in silver and black on the walls. The sun rises, sets. The woman’s motions are like the hands of a clock: regular, but subtle, grounded to a still center point.

Imagine one morning the woman removes a part of the cube, let’s call it a window shade. Now see the greening there, the small buds wet and heavy with rain. It is early morning, but light outside. The grass below the woman’s feet is plush and ripe. She trails in pieces of dead leaf and bits of soil. Nothing smells like snow anymore.

Lipstick, then a dress. Thick tights and sunglasses. Her muscles fire on and off with the movement of walking. She starts with just a single block. The squirrels stretch their little haunches and the birds drift from one naked tree to the next, reminding the woman what leaves look like.

The next day, two blocks.

The third day, there is another woman. Then five more.

At the end of the week they have a name, a joke that someone threw out from their porch when they saw them all together, walking down the street because they were too many now for the sidewalk. The Ladies’ Walking Club.

Soon you must imagine what they look like, in jumpsuits and halters and headscarves and fake eyelashes all walking all moving down your street as if in formation as if they are here to occupy your city.

If you can imagine the feel of the first rock in your hand, sun warmed and scabby with moss, then imagine instead a spiraling length of cloud. See the ladies ascend together into the sky, rising above you until you are left alone, squinting.

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