One spring, the girls next door raced the trees and flowers. Hoping to blossom before the latter. Dreamt of a summer spent in bikinis wrapped tight around swift-grown, striking, hourglass frames.
They’d take whole milk baths and did hand-stands and other nonsense they’d read in the glossies. Scored the width of their hips in the old elm between our houses. It hadn’t changed from March to May. They just gouged deeper in the bark until I could see the marks from my window.
The leaves budded and the flowers bloomed. The girls next door withered. Dried up, due to disappointment.
Prompt courtesy of the Secret Keeper.