Welcome Sunday Stories. The idea is the construct a story around some of the week’s selfportraits, linked to the current theme. Hope you enjoy.

That dream again: on the beach, her children out of reach, drifting towards the sea. Crawling in the sand, she tried to get to them, stop them from being carried away. They were always too far.

She woke up on the floor, as usual. Part of her always wondered, when she found herself like this, what people would think if they caught her sleepcrawling. She was glad there was no one else in that house; hadn’t been for a while now.

She got slowly up, still groggy, her joints stiff from her foray on the floor. The kitchen was cold, empty. Coffee would help. The morning ritual. She heard the noise as the first drop touched her lips; outside, a kind of rustling of the grass. At first, she thought it was her mind playing tricks. She wasn’t quite awake and her head was still in dream mode. Another job for the coffee.

But the noise came again, clearer this time. It was as if someone was skirting the house. She could almost feel them lurking, circling; waiting for the right moment to strike. She knew it was pointless, but she peered through the backdoor window, at an empty yard.

She stood frozen for a while, her coffee growing cold in her hand.

The noise grew faint, the intruder was moving away. But not from the house. After a minute, the noise drove into the front door. Unlock. Open. She let out a scream. Tried to shield herself from the invasion.

To be continued (here).
(Oh, I forgot to add, the story spans the whole month, in weekly instalments.)