I should give some context to this photo. I live in Istanbul and very often me and my hot new wife (My wife was very happy with that description, Ted) will go exploring. One of our favourite places is near Galata Tower.
Around the tower are a labyrinth of streets, side-streets and side-side-streets, and on a Sunday afternoon it can be really fun to go exploring these awesome Turkish passageways. On one of our trips we stumbled upon this broken mannequin and I said to Fiona, ‘Get a pic of that, I think it’ll be a good Fictioneers prompt.’ and, after reading the other stories posted from the prompt, I was definitely right.
So here’s my effort:
When I grew tired of my looks I swapped my head for that of a mannequin. People said I had chiseled good looks and perfect hair, but I couldn’t speak, or laugh, or cry.
I got rid of my chicken legs and acquired some sculpted legs fit for a runner or a Greek God. But I couldn’t walk on them. Girls whistled and called me over but I could only stand there and watch them leave.
I swapped out my beer belly for a six pack and pecs you could bounce a penny off. Then died because I couldn’t breathe.