IT’S MY STORY AND I’LL WRITE WHAT I WANT TO

 

Eh, I didn’t like that beginning.  I’ma start over.

 

What? 

 


 

The incoming tide chilled my toes, icy water fingers reaching across them to the bony tops of my feet, finally becoming cold claws encircling my ankles.  I stood my ground, watching the sun turn pink in the western sky, sinking towards the ocean, its withdrawal turning the water ever colder. 

 

Shivering now I backed away and walked down the beach, away from the hotel.  Cabana boys scurried about, dragging windbreaks and lounge chairs off the sand.  Ahead I saw the first beach fires of the evening being lit, each one surrounded by smiling vacation dads, blissfully housework-free moms, and kids with long sticks and bags of marshmallows.  Behind each figure, where the firelight cast a blue shadow, I could see fragments of their everyday selves—jaws clenched with anger, eyes deadened with fatigue and resignation.  I looked away.

 

Past the big resorts now, I sped towards the cabins near the end of town.  The sun, barely a glowing ember, lit the compound of cabins surrounded by weeds, old tires, beer cans, and other debris too indistinct to name in the gloom of dusk. 

 

I knocked on the door of the smallest cabin—little more than a shack, truth be told.  Nothing.  I knocked again, harder, louder.  Where was he?

 

Rattling the doorknob I found it unlocked.  I pushed the door open and called to him.  No answer.   I felt along the wall for a light switch, but my fingers felt only the rough-textured wall I knew to be painted a sickly yellow.  I banged my shin on a table and blindly reached for a lamp.  Only a figurine stood there, heavy and cold to the touch.  In the dark I couldn’t determine its shape.

 

The tiny squeeze flashlight on my key ring provided a narrow beam of light.  I followed it to the door of the bedroom.  I knocked on that one too, leaning towards the crack and calling his name.

 

The force of my fist pushed the door wide open.  My flashlight swept over the brown bedspread, the nightstand piled high with cheap paperbacks, and finally the window.  The sash was pushed to the very top, the curtains stood apart.  On the floor below I saw the screen, bent as though it had been removed from the frame in great haste.

 

As if someone had needed to exit the cabin through that window, fast.

 

 

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11 thoughts on “IT’S MY STORY AND I’LL WRITE WHAT I WANT TO

  1. Good beginnings.   I’m great with that part but tend to lose steam as the plot goes on.   I’m not even trying the wimp version this year.  No muse at all.    Good luck.
    Ava

    ps   We don’t turn out porch light on either on Halloween, but we keep candy because some litte goblins ring the bell anyway.     If we turned on the light, we’d be swamped and run out of candy!! 

  2. ps… accidently found a cure for the 4 am cat… accidently let them out the night before, of course, i kept waking up wondering where the blasted thing actually was, and i don’t like him out at night bc the coyotes love to eat cats. he was ready to come in at 6:30 when i was up cleaning up poop from the dog who forgot to tell me he needed to go out. can’t even yell at him since he didn’t mean to… he just couldn’t find me… in bed next to where he was sleeping! good thing i have a good carpet shampooer… it’ll be going as soon as the rest of the house is up!!!

  3. A bent screen story!   Sounds promising.  Lately, I’ve been reading my way through Erica Spindler’s mysteries.  She writes scary stuff.   I wish you’d bring the Scary Clown back, I sort of miss him.  He has such potential!  What’s Tigger writing?

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