So tonight, scanning through my wonderful twitter followers, I come along a tweet titled “I need stories!”
So I went to this wonderful site and found this:
Basically, she types a paragraph and you can use is at the beginning or end of your story. I decided to play along and used he paragraph as the opening one to my attempt at a story!
Here it is – what do you think? Just for fun ;)
The sheets blew forward in a sudden blast of air, rattling the clothes pins and setting Leota’s nerves on edge. But that strange wind was hardly the least of it. She wasn’t at all prepared for what came next.
It was as if he appeared from no where. Entering with confidence yet looking so needy. It had been a year and it took her breath away to see him again, standing tall and tan, wearing the sweater she was sure she’d given him.
She didn’t want him here. Did not want him in her sights, much less her memory. She did not want to hear his voice.
She wanted to run, hide, act as if it were not happening. But where could she escape? To a cold, empty house behind her? Rocked by death and destruction? A house with a soul that weeped for it’s losses? A house that was no longer a home?
He came closer, the smell of his musk permeating through the air, drowning the scent of the clean laundry, flailing in the wind, whipping its self dry.
“How are you?”
How was she? Did he really care? Or were formalities the only security he had left?
Sad. Scared. Bitter.
“What are you doing here?”
She didn’t really care, honestly, but habit took over, betraying her need to not hear him speak again.
“I’ve missed you.”
“I can’t say the same.”
Her retort took him back. Rendered him weak. Revealed his true self.
“I know you are angry. I…”
She watched him fumble, reminding her of the day he left. Off to ‘find himself’, ‘redefine his life’, ‘see what else was out there’. Her hatred rose. Daring her to squash it for yet another year. He seemed lost. She welcomed him to her world.
“You have no reason to be here. Go away.”
“Please Leota, give me a chance! I’ve missed you.”
She wondered what he meant by those words, “I’ve missed you.”
What had he missed? Her laugh, her smile, her scent? Her character, her moods, her insecurity?
Or had he really missed the normality? The safety? Not having to try anymore?
She wanted to scorch him with what he had actually missed. Her Mother’s death, her Father’s desertion, the miscarriage. She wanted to scream from that gusty porch that his need to leave and create something for himself sent her world crashing to the ground. That her hatred for him masked the true love she only allowed herself to yearn for when she looked down the neck of a bottle. That her heart ached for him while her brain plotted against him.
No way to live for a young, beautiful girl. But the only way she knew how to live anymore.
“Go away. There is no place for you here. Never was.”
She could see his eyes wanting to argue but change their mind. Her steely, cold resolve too thick to explain through.
He turned to leave, slowly, unhappy that he had not accomplished his goal of smothering his rough beard in her neck. His own heart breaking with the realization of what he had created. Knowing full well he would never see her again. Praying that she would be OK.
She watched him walk away, dust kicking up with his heels. Every step a stamp on the footsteps he had left before. The distance becoming a comfort she was oddly relieved to feel.
The laundry was dry now. Sun kissed and crisp from the gusty winds. She would get it later. When she needed it.
As she walked around her old family homestead and into the cottage in the back, she heard the baby, waking from his nap, certain to be hungry. He was the one that hung on. The one that defied the odds. He’d stuck around on when the other wanted to go to God.
She cuddled her son now, opened her shirt to feed, and her heart to love. Pushing aside the knowledge that he had his father’s eyes and cleft in his chin, she relished in her motherhood.
The guilt of sending him away subsided. This is what it is all about, she thought. A boy and his Mother, on a hot, dusty, country day. Feeding and rocking to the beat of the rattling clothes pins.
Never to be bothered again.
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