✍🏻 Andrea draws the floral curtains across her balcony door to shield the computer screen from the sun‘s glare. Now she’ll be able to see the exact moment he replies to her message. As she waits, she stares at the profile photo on her account; long cascading blond hair and blue eyes as bright as the Mediterranean outside her window. It’s her favourite photo so far. Meanwhile, in the back bedroom of an average suburban terraced house on the outskirts of Maidenhead, Steve reads her message again. She wants to spend an entire week with him in Barbados. He shivers, imagining them lying entwined together on a beach, waiting for the sun to set. The last seven months had been building to this moment, allowing him time to siphon off chunks of money into an account his wife knows nothing about. For the last few weeks he’s also been dripfeeding the possibility of a work trip. It‘s all coming together and he deserves it. Back in Andrea’s apartment, she inadvertently holds her breath as the message on the screen tells her that Steve is typing. In all honesty, she wasn’t sure he would actually go through with it. Her computer pings. He’s replied. Time to bring this to a close. She smiles as she types, asking him to transfer the money directly to her account. That way, she explains, there’s no chance of his wife finding out. There’ll be no search history, bookings, or tickets, to trip them up. It’s almost too easy. Within minutes her phone tells her the transfer had been made and she tells him she can’t wait to finally meet him. Turning the computer off, she stands and walks out onto her balcony. Down on the street below her grandson shouts up to catch her attention and she waves, wincing slightly as the arthritis in her arm reminds her that she feels all of her sixty-nine years. Looking again at the bank account app her son installed on her phone (sceptical she would ever use it), she loves seeing the amount swell, courtesy of each cheating idiot enticed by the promise of a young lover. Despite some initial hesitation, her retirement plan is working out very nicely. #Writing #Storytelling #Catfish #Story #Women #WritersOfInstagram

✍🏻 Signs and placards lined the route of the march and the crowd grew steadily as more people woke from their late nights and busy lives, realising that when exclusion begins, it affects us all. In the midst of the throng, Mina strode proudly, her long legs carrying her with elegance and purpose. She lifted her homemade placard higher, feeling a surge of power as she shouted in unison with the crowd “we stand together”. At that exact moment she saw Casey for the first time, standing alone by the side of the road, nervously scratching at the corner of a worn poster stuck to an old electricity box. Despite their obvious differences, not least Casey’s small stature and almost white blond hair, Mina instantly recognised the trepidation in the way she stood. As the crowd became a throng, became a revolution, Mina weaved her way towards Casey on the opposite side of the street. Smiling, she reached out her hand and waited. After a few seconds, Casey tentatively lifted her arm and stretched out her palm. As she allowed Mina’s fingers to close gently around hers, they both rejoined the march to change the world. #Stories #Writing #Together #Revolution #Protest #WritersOfInstagram

✍🏻 Most people that walk these stairs don’t even notice the orange footprint imprinted on the bottom to last step. For me, it’s a daily reminder of the last time I ever saw my best friend. It’s been fifteen years since then, but I still remember every detail of that night like an episode of a tv show I’ve seen a million times. With paintbrushes in hand, we drank too much cheap wine and laughed until we couldn’t breathe. We ate cold pizza, listened to Amy Winehouse, and made plans for a future that never materialised. When she stepped into the paint tray and planted her orange foot on the stairs, we declared it art and I said I’d paint a frame around it. I never did. She left late that night. Too late. She should have called a cab. She should have stayed over. I should have made her stay over. I should have insisted. But I didn’t. So she left, and I never saw her again. Nobody did. Looking down at her footprint, now fading away with age, I kneel and draw a frame around it. Lucy, If you’re out there somewhere (and I hope to god you are), I’m sorry. #Story #Writing #Girlfriends #Missing #InstaStory #WritersOfInstagram

✍🏻 Paint peeling, wood warped, brickwork stained by years of life. Hanna felt exactly like the building she was staring up at. Battered but still standing. Tomorrow she might wake up feeling like a gorgeous, terracotta sun-kissed Côte d’Azur apartment, complete with cute green shutters. But for now she’d have to wait and see. The only thing she knew for sure, was that no one warned her when she hit forty, that her body would no longer feel like hers. #InstaStory #Writing #40 #Storytelling