I hear them whispering behind my back, slyly casting innuendos while I breathe in the maliced air.
“That Alice, she is a strange one”, they say, “No time for people but babbles to her collection of lamps instead”.
The art of conversation is dead these days. No one talks anymore, they just send inane texts. So I make these lamps myself. Jane over there, she is pink and curvaceous. A veritable Marilyn Monroe of lamps.
Aaron is smooth, muscular and radiating power.
Betty struggled when I threw her in the kiln yesterday. Look at her now, all soft and feminine.
Written for Friday Fictioneers. Word Count : 100