I did consider composing a couple of pretentious paragraphs about how publishing a novel is like opening a door on your psyche. Will people connect with what they find there? Will they even cross the threshold to have a look?
Then I thought, what the hell. Other stuff on my to-do list seems more urgent. More tempting. So, let’s go straight to my 99-word story in response to the prompt open door.
Suzi begged her mum to leave the door ajar. She begged her daddy too. Then, if a nightmare awoke her, she could see her teddies, and the landing light would stretch through the gap and chase any witches away. But if the adults’ games disturbed her - thumping music, shouting, shattering glass - she’d creep from her bed and shut the door on the noise.
One night, she felt a hand on her tummy. Under the Cinderella duvet and her Pocahontas pyjama top. Suzi hasn’t slept at her daddy’s since then. Even at home, she insists on closing her bedroom door.