It's liberating, and yet slightly scary, to be facing my own clean slate of writing without the context and structure of a story again!
A clean slate There were only two of them at first. They loitered outside the fence, staying under the branches of the trees. Mayhap it was the rain, a light autumn drizzle that would soak you through to the skin without you noticing if you were out in it for too long, or mayhap they liked the shadows. I tried to think nothing of it. I was new in town and that always attracts attention. I went about the house, cleaning it up and tidying things. I put things I didn't want in a big black plastic bag and things I didn't like the position of went in the middle of the room to be reorganised when I'd been through everything. When I looked out the windows a half-hour later there were three of them, and when I spent five minutes watching I saw those odd flickers that made me certain there were actually four of them, and at least two of them were using the shadows to move around and get a better overall view of the house. I set the black bags -- there were three of them now -- outside the back door. There was a veranda there with a barbecue grill on it. Both veranda and grill had seen better years, and I wouldn't set foot on it without having someone check it out first. I went back in to the living room, now a clean slate of its own with the furniture pushed back against the walls and everything else piled in the middle of the floor. For a moment, just a moment, I was tempted to go out to the garage and get the gasoline canisters and have myself a small bonfire, but it passed and I tried to pretend I couldn't smell smoke. There was a cracking sound, and then a crash from outside and I knew that one of them had tried to get onto the veranda to see what was in my bags and the wood had given way. I was mightly impressed that there was no screaming though. I looked out of the window and saw that there was only one of them under the tree now. Either the others had gone with the one fallen through the veranda, or they'd gone to his or her aid. I picked a ceramic doll with blank eyes out of the pile of things I'd kept and considered her carefully. She was eerie: her arms and legs were far too long and thin, and her face was carefully painted but she had no eyes. She felt oddly familiar though, so I set her on a corner table where she could surveille the room, and considered what else was in the pile. Someone knocked on the front door. I picked up a book on Etruscan pottery, testing its weight. It felt like it could concuss a small child, so I kept hold of it and went to open the door. The man stood outside was wearing a uniform, but not a police or fireman's. He had broken teeth -- of course -- and there was blood on his hand. "Your veranda busted," he said, his voice thick and strongly-accented. I'd have had trouble understanding him if I weren't so used to the accent. I thought I'd left it behind though. "It busted up my friend too. He's sorry for trespassing, but he could use some help." "I'll be right back," I said, forcing a smile. Then I closed the door and locked it, and headed upstairs.
I imagine it's good to flex your writing muscles and imagination by writing about new places and characters and stories again, but I also appreciate that the work might with it some aches and pains :)
I like this narrator a lot. He seems very... capable. I wouldn't mind hearing more from him and learning why, exactly, he's so calm in the face of... well, this.
2 comments:
It's liberating, and yet slightly scary, to be facing my own clean slate of writing without the context and structure of a story again!
A clean slate
There were only two of them at first. They loitered outside the fence, staying under the branches of the trees. Mayhap it was the rain, a light autumn drizzle that would soak you through to the skin without you noticing if you were out in it for too long, or mayhap they liked the shadows. I tried to think nothing of it. I was new in town and that always attracts attention. I went about the house, cleaning it up and tidying things. I put things I didn't want in a big black plastic bag and things I didn't like the position of went in the middle of the room to be reorganised when I'd been through everything.
When I looked out the windows a half-hour later there were three of them, and when I spent five minutes watching I saw those odd flickers that made me certain there were actually four of them, and at least two of them were using the shadows to move around and get a better overall view of the house.
I set the black bags -- there were three of them now -- outside the back door. There was a veranda there with a barbecue grill on it. Both veranda and grill had seen better years, and I wouldn't set foot on it without having someone check it out first. I went back in to the living room, now a clean slate of its own with the furniture pushed back against the walls and everything else piled in the middle of the floor. For a moment, just a moment, I was tempted to go out to the garage and get the gasoline canisters and have myself a small bonfire, but it passed and I tried to pretend I couldn't smell smoke.
There was a cracking sound, and then a crash from outside and I knew that one of them had tried to get onto the veranda to see what was in my bags and the wood had given way. I was mightly impressed that there was no screaming though. I looked out of the window and saw that there was only one of them under the tree now. Either the others had gone with the one fallen through the veranda, or they'd gone to his or her aid.
I picked a ceramic doll with blank eyes out of the pile of things I'd kept and considered her carefully. She was eerie: her arms and legs were far too long and thin, and her face was carefully painted but she had no eyes. She felt oddly familiar though, so I set her on a corner table where she could surveille the room, and considered what else was in the pile.
Someone knocked on the front door. I picked up a book on Etruscan pottery, testing its weight. It felt like it could concuss a small child, so I kept hold of it and went to open the door.
The man stood outside was wearing a uniform, but not a police or fireman's. He had broken teeth -- of course -- and there was blood on his hand.
"Your veranda busted," he said, his voice thick and strongly-accented. I'd have had trouble understanding him if I weren't so used to the accent. I thought I'd left it behind though. "It busted up my friend too. He's sorry for trespassing, but he could use some help."
"I'll be right back," I said, forcing a smile. Then I closed the door and locked it, and headed upstairs.
Greg - you're welcome!
I imagine it's good to flex your writing muscles and imagination by writing about new places and characters and stories again, but I also appreciate that the work might with it some aches and pains :)
I like this narrator a lot. He seems very... capable. I wouldn't mind hearing more from him and learning why, exactly, he's so calm in the face of... well, this.
Or these I should say...
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