I’ve been reading a couple of writing prompts for fun. Write – in first person – of how you made a mistake.
I thought this could be fun to write as realism fiction. A few things influenced how I came up with the premise: a slippery stone floor of a restaurant I’d recently checked out as a function venue; reading and writing chick-lit; images of gorgeous shoes sent to me because summer’s almost here; people braaiing because it’s finally warm enough, while I feel a little left out being Vegetarian and all; and something someone said about dressing right for an occasion. Also, I’d been looking at old photos. A few years ago, I had purple streaks in my hair…
By Ronel Janse van Vuuren
I met up with ‘friends’ I hadn’t seen in years. It wasn’t by choice, though. My best friend was getting married and, being the social butterfly she is, she’d kept in touch with everyone. Turning my back on meat and drunken braais hadn’t been taken well by any of them, so we’d drifted apart.
I could sense the tension as I walked into the restaurant. I kept my smile firmly in place, ignoring the stares: I knew the purple streaks in my hair and black outfit looked amazing, even if it was rather unexpected.
‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ an unrecognisable blonde said.
It took me a while to place her face. Mostly because she was three times the size she’d been the last time I’d seen her.
I nodded in her direction and made my way to my friend’s side, carefully balancing the wedding gift I got her, while trying not to slip on the ridiculously slippery floor in my stiletto sandals; it felt too much like something a heroine in a chick-lit novel would do…
‘I’m so glad you could make it,’ the bride-to-be said. She opened her gift and oohed and aahed over the glass-and-aluminium tea-set and herbal teas.
‘You’re not converting her! Get the hell out of here!’
Shocked, I turned around. Nothing about me had changed except that I’m Vegetarian. The streaks in my hair was just a bit of fun.
My friend’s mother looked at me like I was something dangerous. I took in her pale pink outfit and knew that I’d made a mistake in dressing according to my mood: some people read just too much into appearances.
Though the bride-to-be and her bridesmaids were able to talk sense into the faint-hearted woman, a damper had been cast on the rest of the Kitchen Tea.
This could’ve been a #TwistedTaleTuesday post, but I thought I’d post it here instead: there’s no magic involved. What do you think? Is there anything about the story you think should change? Do you judge people on what they wear? Are you enjoying my monthly posts of realism fiction?