The poem looks good in its new home in the sidebar! I had a chance to read it this morning, and it holds together well -- I don't think anyone would guess the stressful conditions you wrote it under :)
Dexterity Hail sounds like tapping on the windows as it bounces off the glass. Monica checks outside periodically, tutting to herself as she sees the ground disappear below a layer of whiteness. She checks the weather forecast every time as well, as though maybe a miracle will happen and it will get warmer, but no: the predictions are for snow after the hail, and that will create a layer of solid ice underneath the snow. The paths and roads will be treacherous for weeks... maybe not the roads, the city have had the gritters out for the past two days already, and they'll almost certainly come around tonight as well. So that leaves the paths... she sighs, knowing that now she's thought about it she won't be able to rest until she's gone out and spread the coarse rock salt that Gareth stockpiled two years ago on her front path and at least some of the public pavement. Sidewalk; she corrects herself mentally. They call it sidewalk here, the pavement is the -- unpaved -- road for some reason. She ponders putting her coat on, but really she needs to and she knows it. She puts her arms through the sleeves and zips it, then buttons over the zips. It's bright blue, a good colour for snowy days and being seen, and it's warm. It's also the final step of committing to putting down the salt, but if it means she's not slipping and sliding everywhere... it's worth it. The sacks of rocksalt are stored at the side of the house, and though it takes a little dexterity to get there with the hail underfoot she kicks her way through, scuffing her feet along like her mother used to tell her not to do, and with only a wobble or too gets to the green plastic bin. When she opens it she smiles with recognition and memory: Gareth split the salt up into two-kilo bags which she can easily pick up, and there's a scoop in the top one to make it easy to strew. So thoughtful of him. As she starts to spread the salt around, sprinkling it out like birdseed for the pigeons, she finds herself smiling. Even sprays of hail bouncing off the hood and panels of her coat don't break this mood, and she reaches the sidewalk far faster than she thought she would. The sack is still half-full, and she decides that she'll cover as much of the sidewalk as the sack will allow. Maybe later she'll need to be more careful and ration it, but for now she'll be a benefactress of the public. She sees the man, she thinks it's a man anyway but he's all wrapped up in a heavy dark-blue wool coat, slipping on the sidewalk towards her. He hasn't got her dexterity, but then he hasn't got a freshly salted path beneath his feet either. She braces, ready to catch him and steady him and help him on his way. Just like a benefactress. He slips badly just as he reaches her, and she bends forward to try and catch him before he hits the ground. His hand catches hers, and its so cold that he can't have had them in his pockets all the time he's been out. Then his scarf, wrapped around his face, unravels, and there's nothing but smooth, egg-like flesh underneath it.
Yeah, of course you had to sneak one of these bastards into one of your tales. Well, at least one. Who knows what's in store for me in the next couple of posts...
(well done, by the way - some great details here, and I really like what you did with the absent Gareth)
2 comments:
The poem looks good in its new home in the sidebar! I had a chance to read it this morning, and it holds together well -- I don't think anyone would guess the stressful conditions you wrote it under :)
Dexterity
Hail sounds like tapping on the windows as it bounces off the glass. Monica checks outside periodically, tutting to herself as she sees the ground disappear below a layer of whiteness. She checks the weather forecast every time as well, as though maybe a miracle will happen and it will get warmer, but no: the predictions are for snow after the hail, and that will create a layer of solid ice underneath the snow. The paths and roads will be treacherous for weeks... maybe not the roads, the city have had the gritters out for the past two days already, and they'll almost certainly come around tonight as well. So that leaves the paths... she sighs, knowing that now she's thought about it she won't be able to rest until she's gone out and spread the coarse rock salt that Gareth stockpiled two years ago on her front path and at least some of the public pavement. Sidewalk; she corrects herself mentally. They call it sidewalk here, the pavement is the -- unpaved -- road for some reason.
She ponders putting her coat on, but really she needs to and she knows it. She puts her arms through the sleeves and zips it, then buttons over the zips. It's bright blue, a good colour for snowy days and being seen, and it's warm. It's also the final step of committing to putting down the salt, but if it means she's not slipping and sliding everywhere... it's worth it.
The sacks of rocksalt are stored at the side of the house, and though it takes a little dexterity to get there with the hail underfoot she kicks her way through, scuffing her feet along like her mother used to tell her not to do, and with only a wobble or too gets to the green plastic bin. When she opens it she smiles with recognition and memory: Gareth split the salt up into two-kilo bags which she can easily pick up, and there's a scoop in the top one to make it easy to strew. So thoughtful of him.
As she starts to spread the salt around, sprinkling it out like birdseed for the pigeons, she finds herself smiling. Even sprays of hail bouncing off the hood and panels of her coat don't break this mood, and she reaches the sidewalk far faster than she thought she would. The sack is still half-full, and she decides that she'll cover as much of the sidewalk as the sack will allow. Maybe later she'll need to be more careful and ration it, but for now she'll be a benefactress of the public.
She sees the man, she thinks it's a man anyway but he's all wrapped up in a heavy dark-blue wool coat, slipping on the sidewalk towards her. He hasn't got her dexterity, but then he hasn't got a freshly salted path beneath his feet either. She braces, ready to catch him and steady him and help him on his way. Just like a benefactress.
He slips badly just as he reaches her, and she bends forward to try and catch him before he hits the ground. His hand catches hers, and its so cold that he can't have had them in his pockets all the time he's been out. Then his scarf, wrapped around his face, unravels, and there's nothing but smooth, egg-like flesh underneath it.
Greg - haha, thanks :)
Yeah, of course you had to sneak one of these bastards into one of your tales. Well, at least one. Who knows what's in store for me in the next couple of posts...
(well done, by the way - some great details here, and I really like what you did with the absent Gareth)
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