The exercise:
Let's see what happens we when write about: coyotes.
Mine is very loosely based on a dream I had last night, after hearing the local coyotes rather close to the cabin just before bed.
We went up to Penticton today to do some shopping and brought back most of what's left to be done around here - curtain rods for the kitchen and living room windows, a light fixture for the front porch light, and some things for the bathroom. I'm hoping to pick up the washer and dryer tomorrow, but I haven't had any confirmation that they've arrived yet.
Tonight I booked our rental car for our second week in Jamaica. Sweeeet.
Mine:
When day fled before night, they would lock their doors and keep the hungry fireplace fed, making sure there was enough wood inside to last until day's return. They would huddle together beneath blankets, drinking warm drinks and thinking happy thoughts, as darkness devoured the land beyond their walls.
And all the while, no matter how hard they tried to do otherwise, they would listen. Their eager ears were rarely disappointed.
The coyotes would descend from their diurnal hiding places in the hills, yipping and barking and howling, their numbers unknowable. They would circle the house, sniffing at the windows, scratching at the doors, seeking a way inside. Their hunger was palpable.
The man and woman would hold each other close, hardly daring to breathe until the beasts moved on to the next home on their nightly route. Once the sounds outside stopped, they would smile, perhaps allow a nervous laugh to escape their lips, and then go to their beds.
But one night the man was particularly tired after a long day's work and he fell asleep in his workshop. He woke when his wife called his name, startled to find that the day was already receding. He hurried into his home and locked the door behind him. It wasn't until after the coyotes arrived that he realized they would not have enough wood to last the night.
So he waited until they had moved on, standing at his window and staring hard into the night, searching for movement. When enough time had passed without any indication of their presence, he donned his coat and gloves and slipped outside.
It was difficult to move silently, with the snow crunching beneath his boots, but the wood pile was not far. He quickly filled his bucket with all that it could carry, his breath fogging the air before him, and turned back to the house.
