flashfiction, microfiction, short story

‘Feather Weight’

My weakness surrounds me like a force field.   My family used to moan that I never lifted a finger to help around the house until medical experts backed me up: my fingers (and other parts) really are very heavy for me.

I am literally bone idle.  I aspire to puniness.

My carers bring me what I need and remove what I don’t, and I flex my most exercised muscles to show gratitude, if they’re looking at me.

Sometimes, lying here, I daydream about joining the circus.   I could be a double-act with the Strong Man – the Weak Woman.  Flat on my back, struggling to keep a downy feather afloat above my lips with puff after effortful puff.  I don’t imagine it would be much of a draw, but the image amuses me.  I find my lips making circles, unconsciously.

Roll up, roll up.

Feather weight champion of the world.


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