Tuesday, September 8, 2009

That Writing Itch

I've been feeling the overwhelming need to write all of a sudden. I'm not sure if it has anything to do with Wonder Boys, or if it's just the fact that - it's been so fucking long since I've written anything.

Anyway, here is a fragment of something I might think about actually putting into something larger. I'd like to do something the right way, for once. With an outline and more than two paragraphs.

What are your honest and brutal opinions?

She stands at her kitchen sink, staring out the window to the front lawn. At a distance, she can see the Eastman’s house. Halfway between the brown Mrs. Eastman had painted it last month, and the olive green she decided to start painting it today. A restless house. Never satisfied in its image. Closer, she spies a FOR SALE sign on the Eastman’s lawn and tries to remember how many FOR SALE signs she’s seen there over the past sixteen years. She can’t. Too many. Yet, the Eastmans had lived there the day she’d moved to this block. And they live there still. And her front lawn. Their front lawn. Neat and tidy. The Japanese oak stunted, yet vibrant and full of fire. She remembers seeing a dried up mound of dog shit at its base this morning. Fucking dogs. And the owners who let their dogs shit on her lawn – their lawn – with not even the pretense of cleaning up after the canines. Fuck them.
She drops her hands into the sink. Full of dishes. Always. Cereal caked to the side of the deep blue bowls. Coffee and lipstick ringed mugs. One inside the other and a dinner plate balanced artfully atop a milky spoon. Now with the water on and a sigh. She leans over to open the dishwasher. Her silent dishwasher. It was emptied this morning, but not without begging and ultimately threatening. Rinse and place is the motion. The repetition. The sequence of events for the next twenty minutes. An engine sounds somewhere down their street and still stooped, she cocks her head to see who might be there. It passes, but she notices a little spot of something on the window and moves closer for better inspection. It is brown. Reddish brown. A splash of reddish brown color on the window. Standing on her tip toes and using the granite counter top for balance, she peers onto the grass directly below the window. There she spies only a small pile of white and gray feathers. A small pile of white and gray feathers and a splash of reddish brown color on the window.
Today, she thinks. Today

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