She remembered two things from her first day as a minister – all political careers end in failure and nothing’s forgotten more quickly than a reshuffled minister. And here she was being reshuffled to let ‘Big Beast’ Bertrand Collins back in now he had won a by election.
Elise felt cheated. The PM’s oily sincerity while his people analysed her, checking for signs of rebellion. He hadn’t stayed in power for so long without such checks. And Elise couldn’t – didn’t want to – hide her disappointment. ‘Take a break,’ he said. ‘Use our island. Be pampered.’
Here she was, in tropical splendour. All sorts of fun and now this. They were to take a cast of her, like at Tussauds. She’d noticed the figurines already, lifelike if a little chilling. Maybe they seemed out of place here.
They wrapped her, while she sipped a cocktail and dozed.
Her brain felt fried. How could she be still wrapped up and why were they carrying her downstairs?
As the men tilted her upright she realised the awful truth and what it was about the eyes of the figurines that has so disturbed her.
This story is prompted by Sacha Black’s Writespiration here.
Write a story about Doll Island, maybe its doll island in Mexico, or perhaps another kind of dystopian doll island, maybe they are all robots. Is it scary or a little girls heaven? Whatever you do include an island of dolls in your story. Less than 200 words please.