Photo by Prochristo

Here’s how our third installment of Build A Story is going so far:

I knew what Jenkins did for a living, or I knew enough anyway to make me wish I knew nothing, yet when he called sounding so desperate for help it felt good to be needed again, a feeling gone cold since Mother had died, and so, ironically perhaps, against the better judgment she’d instilled in me, I agreed to cover for him for the day.

I was a fool, and soon to be a bitter one. I had no idea what putting on that costume really meant, nor could I have expected the world it would drag me into. I had worn another’s costume before; at Mother’s insistence, the theatrical garb she kept in the steamer trunk under her bed was to be aired out every other week, and seeing it hang lifelessly from the clothesline made me sad. I took a turn in it all, and trod the boards of the attic stage, one day a lady buccaneer hunting for treasure in breeches and blouse, a rubber dagger clenched between my teeth, the next a gypsy spinning spells in a long bright skirt and silk scarves, both arms loaded down with rhinstone bangle bracelets.

But never had I been inside a costume as all-consuming as Jenkins’ was, a costume that required its own breathing apparatus.

Thanks for reading, now where will you take the story next?