DOES THIS EVEN COUNT AS AN UPDATE?

What do I even say on here anymore? I thought once I had started my summer vacation that I would have plenty of things to write about and then, well, here we are. Postless. And writing about nothing? What is that. Oh yeah, that's my life.

I was laying in bed last night, unable to fall asleep, and all my brain wanted to do was write. But my computer was in the living room and that was just too much work - so I stared at the ceiling and invented dialogue for a fiction story.

///

"Come va?" he asks, in Italian. How are you?
"Cosi-cosi," I reply. Alright. This has become our little game. "Y tu?"
"Molto bene!!" he says with a certain gusto. Very well. All five of his fingers on his right hand are pinched together and he's making a sweeping motion with his arm that is so stereotypical of Italian non-verbal communication. We crack up and fall backwards, landing softly beside each other on the bed.

His dark eyes sparkle as he looks over at me, his face wrinkled with heavy laughter. He shifts his gaze away and then back to me, the expression of his features changing suddenly, becoming more serious than I had anticipated. I expect him to kiss me, but instead he says, "MOLTO BENE!" again, almost at the top of his lungs this time and then collapses back into a deep laughter.

///

But that's all I can remember before I eventually drifted off to sleep. It's been a good long while since I wrote anything story-like. Mostly I just cover the non-events of my life and actually those just go by unnoticed most of the time.

I'm tempted to write posts like my cute little almost sister-in-law. The Highs and Lows of recent times. Or maybe just the highs. Then every paragraph is about its own event and there you go. But even though it works so wonderfully for her, my brain does not post like that.

So you're stuck with this nonsense. Hashtag sorry not sorry.

This is the life of a girl who cleans a lot and doesn't write about the things she does when she's out of the house. Did you know there is an event here called Car D Lane (a play off Coeur d'Alene in case you were confused) and it's an antique car show. Also, I went there with Nathan and my roommate and her boyfriend. We took our picture by this beautiful Stingray and then posted the picture on Facebook saying "look what we just bought!" as a joke.

I'm fairly certain most people think we actually bought the car and the humor was lost on them. Which actually made it funnier for me, because I'm a teacher and Nathan and is a teller at a bank. A new car? Especially an antique new car? HAAA. But then I remember what kind of country America is and maybe it's actually a believable story anyway? Who knows.

Well, my coffee is cold now. Natalie out.

A SHORT SPANISH STORY

writing prompt: you are moving to spain to start your life over

\\

Frantically I shoved articles of clothing into my suitcase. In the heat of the moment I didn't care what I was grabbing, just that I was grabbing anything at all. There was no way I could stay here any longer, not after the recent events that had just transpired in my life. My job was monotonous and relentlessly unpleasant. I had moved halfway across the country for this position, away from my friends and family and it had turned out to be the hugest of mistakes.

But hey, I'm young. I'll recover.

You might think at this point that I'm mindlessly packing my belongings to move back home with my family, but I assure you that's not the case. Oh no, you see, I can't go back there. I can't let them know I've failed. There's no coming back from that. So I'm leaving the country. I Johnny Paycheck'ed my job and now I'm free.

My plane leaves in a few hours; heading to Spain. I have no idea what I'm going to do there or where I'm going to live, but hey, right now, I couldn't really care less. I just want out. There's something incredibly liberating about this moment. The power at the end of my fingertips couldn't be more tangible. My heart is fluttering in my chest and I can't throw things in my luggage fast enough.

There is a song playing from my cell phone. Someone is beckoning me, but I'm ignoring it. I don't have the time or the patience to deal with whatever catastrophe is on the other end. Besides, feverishly packing my few important items is way more entertaining at the moment. I only have three hours before I'm seated on a plane next to a window awaiting a fresh start in a new country where I know absolutely no one and I don't even speak the same language.

Why did I pick Spain? Funny you should ask that. I threw a dart at a wall and that's where it landed, a very scientific process, right? Right. There's just something about living overseas that has haunted me my whole life. When I was little I dreamed about moving to Germany, never really believing that one day that could be a reality.

Well, after working an ultimately thankless job with no recognition, now is the time to make my move. I have nothing here tying me down; I have no obstacles to keep me stateside. I tell you, I've never felt more alive than I do in this moment right now.

My suitcase is becoming increasingly full and I have to sit on it in order to work the zipper. If it's over the 50 pound weight limit I don't care. One suitcase and two check bags later, I'm on my way out the door. Living in the city means I don't even have a car to worry about and forget the rent on my overpriced apartment. As far as I'm concerned, I'm never coming back.

Eleven hours later I'm standing in the middle of the Madrid airport. I have to stop and catch my breath. What am I doing? Is this really happening? I feel like Dave after Dentist. Is this real life? I pinch my arm. Yep, I'm in Spain. The air is warm, the people are beautiful and there is color everywhere.

Suddenly I feel like crying and I'm not exactly sure why. It's probably a combination of the fact that I'm very dramatically running away from everything I've ever known and the gypsy part of me that is beyond excited for a new life adventure. Yes, starting over is exactly what I needed. I take a deep breath, shove my tears back down my throat and step outside into the Spanish air.

New life, here I come.

some fiction for you part 2

If you missed part one you can catch up here. 

///\\\ 

Her body was beginning to tense with fear based off of the look that Wyatt had thrown her way. "Tell me you didn't touch the mirror," he repeated while looking straight into Joanie's eyes. Her throat constricted, words were impossible for her so she merely nodded her head. It was just as the tips of her fingers brushed the ornate carvings on the mirror's frame when the earthquake hit. The coincidental timing was not lost on her or Katie.

Wyatt closed his eyes, slightly exasperated.

"Why are we not supposed to touch the mirror?" Katie asked, finding the words that Joanie had lost. Just then the floor rumbled, less violently than before but still enough to unnerve both girls. Aftershocks, Katie concluded in her head.

"It's just an old story," Wyatt started to explain, dismissing the tremors of the house. Then he sighed heavily as if burdened with the entire world. Katie and Joanie, not to be put off, leaned their bodies toward Wyatt's place on the over sized chair. But he didn't react to them. Wyatt had become so lost in thought that it took Joanie's hand waving in front of his face before he remembered that he was even on Earth.

His fingers rubbed back and forth in his lap as Wyatt mentally argued with himself as to whether or not he should delve into the story, the memories of the house and the mirror. On one hand the girls appeared interested and it was a good adventure, but on the other hand it was mentally and emotionally taxing to retell the tale of the looking glass.

"Go on," Katie coaxed impatiently.

"It started a long time ago," Wyatt finally consented, having decided to let the girls in on the story. He sighed, took a sip of water from the glass sitting beside him, and continued on. "The legend says the mirror was forged in mountains of a mythical land-"

"Wait!" Joanie almost shouted, she was stifling laughter. "Are you for real? A mythical land? Seriously?" she looked at Katie in disbelief, but Katie was staring at Wyatt intently. "Guys?" Joanie questioned their silence.

"Do you want to know the story or not?" Wyatt turned his gaze on a quizzical Joanie who nodded her head, sobering up. "I'm just telling you what was told to me. And it was Myrtle who sat me down one night and confided it all in me anyway. So if you're going to poke fun just know you're doing it at Myrtle's expense."

Joanie's smile faded and she waited for Wyatt to continue his tale. He looked as if he was about to say something, his mouth agape, but then he broke into a wide disarming smile. Katie sat up straight, confused. Joanie rolled her eyes.

"Hobbits," he says.

"Hobbits?" the girls repeat simultaneously.

"Hobbits," he confirms solemnly.

"There is no way hobbits have anything to do with the mirror," Joanie raised her eyebrows in disbelief.

"No, maybe not hobbits. Maybe house elves..." Wyatt changes his mind. Joanie is starting to catch on. She plays his game.

"Dobby?" she asks, trying to refrain from smiling. Wyatt shakes his head.

"Maybe not," he holds Joanie's stare, careful not to give too much away. Katie is still lost. She looks somewhat frantically from Joanie to Wyatt and back again.

"What in the world is going on?" Katie asks, frustration rising in her voice.

"Okay, the truth is," Wyatt gives in, "the truth is that there is no legend behind the mirror."

It takes a second for the words to sink in. No legend behind the mirror? No creepy story to explain the timing between touching the mirror and the earthquake? Katie shakes her head and rests the side of her face on her hand leaning against the arm of the couch. "So you were making it all up?" she inquires in a voice barely above a whisper. She looks a little hurt and Wyatt feels a little sorry for playing it up, but the opportunity was too good to pass on.

"Sorry," he says slightly sheepishly. Joanie cackles from where she's seated, finding the whole thing absolutely hilarious. And then she remembers being thrown against the hard furniture and being knocked unconscious.

"It can't be just coincidental timing that Joanie touched the mirror and there was an earthquake," Katie volunteered once Joanie's laughing had died down.

"But it's also something that I can't explain to you," Wyatt shrugs his shoulders.

"Let's touch it again and see what happens then," Katie suggests. What have they got to lose? She stands up from the couch and makes her way towards the staircase. She's at the bottom before she realizes that she's not being followed. "Come on you guys, if there's no legend then what do you have to be afraid of?"

Joanie starts in Katie's direction, to prove she's not a wimp. Wyatt follows her, refusing to be outdone and the three make their way back to the bedroom. Wyatt explained that this had been Myrtle's bedroom, but she'd always kept a sheet over that mirror. He asked her about it once, but she brushed him off saying something vague and noncommittal. Once when Wyatt had house sat for her he had peeked under the white cotton linen, but decided to leave it alone anyway at Myrtle's request.

Katie unabashedly and unceremoniously yanked the sheet away from the beautiful ancient mirror. It now stood before them in all it's reflective glory. The longer Katie stared into the looking glass to more she was in awe at how it had survived this long and stayed so lovely, unbroken and vibrant. There was something odd about how it reflected the world too, everything seemed much brighter inside the confines of the mirror's surface. All three of them took note of this.

It was Wyatt though, who reached out a cautious calloused hand and wrapped his fingers around the wooden frame. At first nothing happened, and they all breathed a sigh of relief. Wyatt released his hold on the mirror, laughing nervously.

"See?" Katie said pointedly, "that wasn't scary."

She reached her own had toward the mirror, and that's when it happened. Katie reached for the glass, not the frame and then she disappeared. The room started shaking and Joanie looked frightfully at Wyatt for any sort of an explanation at all. The only thing she saw in his eyes though was fear. Before she had time to think it through, Joanie reached for the mirror the same way Katie had and then she was gone too. Wyatt didn't know what to do, and he couldn't leave the girls trapped in the mirror all alone, so he reached forward and the mirror swirled around him.

Katie hit the ground hard, but found that she had landed in a field. Not very far away was Joanie, and just beyond her lay Wyatt. The sky was bright blue and the sun was almost blinding. There weren't any trees to shade it's harsh rays and Katie had to cover her eyes with her hand in order to see. In the distance there was some sort of house with smoke billowing out of the chimney. It looked like it was placed at the base of a mountain, and with no where else to head Katie decided that was as good of a direction to take as any.

Joanie and Wyatt made their way over to where Katie was seated in the field. They had noticed the surroundings too and had come to much the same conclusion as Katie. Standing up and brushing herself off, Katie felt achy from her fall and a bit shook up from what had just happened. Could she really have been sucked through a vortex by a mirror? The whole thing reminded her of Narnia and she half heartedly looked around for a lamp post and Mr. Tumnus, but there was nothing of the sort.

The three decided to head for the distant house right away, with no other real options to consider. It was so far away though that they figured the sooner they started on their way the better. Judging by where the sun was in the sky they didn't have much time until it started to get dark.

Up close the house was really more of a log cabin, small enough with probably just one or two rooms on the inside. There was a yellow light glowing through the windows, probably from a lantern. The air was smokey scented, smelling of burning pine. It was decided that Wyatt would be the one to knock on the door and after three hearty raps it slowly opened. And there stood Myrtle.

some fiction for you part 1

Writing prompt 145: What happens when two friends visit and old house that one of them inherited from an old relative? Inside the house is a 100 year old mirror that has never been broken.

It was a long drive down the dirt road, but they had finally made it to their destination. The house was nothing like Katie expected. Instead of a run-down lame excuse for a dwelling, she was greeted by a brightly colored, well kept up old homestead with a wrap around veranda - not unlike the type of housing she often dreamt about.

Joanie laughed audibly, "This has got to be the biggest surprise in the history of ever! Who knew when you found out this place was yours that you might actually want to live here." Katie parked the car and turned the engine off. Looking over at Joanie, she jingled the keys to the front door and smiled.

Both girls made their way up the steps to the solid wooden French style front door. Katie slid the key into the lock and cautiously found herself in a very large foyer. The furniture had all been draped with sheets long ago and a layer of dust covered everything. Joanie sneezed and then waved her hand in front of her face. Even though everything looked to be in good condition, it had definitely remained untouched for years.

Katie wandered through the house, taking stock of the items in this room and that one. There were several large rooms on the ground floor, including a modernized kitchen and a sizable guest bedroom. She and Joanie couldn't believe they were actually here, surrounded by all this stuff in this great big place. When the letter had arrived in the mail to relay the information of her recent inheritance, Katie had been a little hesitant to come out and see the state of her new belongings, but now she was glad she did.

Joanie left the bedroom in search of other treasures, but Katie stood still at the foot of the enormous wooden bed frame. Her hand was placed precariously on the ornately carved post as she let out a heavy sigh. What was she going to do with all this stuff? It seemed a monumental task to catalog and sell everything, but it was an even scarier thought for her to move in. She couldn't just uproot her life to live out here! In the middle of nowhere! But then again, what did she have to lose?

"Hey, Katie, get up here!" Joanie called from the top of the staircase. She was leaning over the railing, peering downwards with a mischievous gleam in her bright green eyes. Katie, jolted out of her thoughts, dashed up the stairs.

"What's up?"

"Look what I found," Joanie smiled and led Katie into one of the many rooms. She nonchalantly flipped on the light and lifted an old bed sheet off of a large standing mirror. It had a beautiful dark stained wooden frame and was adorned with artistic hand carved designs.

"This is gorgeous," Katie whispered so quietly that Joanie almost didn't hear her.

"It's got to be over a hundred years old," Joanie said, nodding in agreement. She reached out and touched the mirror's edge. Just then there was a cold burst of air in the room and the girls were sent flying backward from the ancient looking glass. The floor shook and rumbled like thunder, throwing both Katie and Joanie around like rag dolls.

Joanie's head came in contact with a large armoire that was taking up residence in a back corner of the room and was instantly knocked out. Katie flew into the wall, her body smashing hard against the pale yellow painted plaster wall. The lights went out and the room was dark.

Once the house quit trembling, Katie remained motionless on the floor. She was too frightened to stand just yet. Momentarily forgetting that Joanie was even with her, Katie closed her eyes. What just happened? With a shaky hand she reached for her temples. Her entire body ached from slamming into the hard wall. But before she could have any farther thoughts, she heard footsteps and looking up, a man appeared in the doorway.

He stood for a moment just outside the room before entering and covering the mirror back up with the sheet. Looking over at Katie, he glared with fiery blue eyes deeply set into an attractive face with a square jaw line. He looked just like every cowboy on the covers of Western novels.

Joanie stirred from the corner of the room and moaned. The man shifted his gaze from one girl to the other. The tension between Katie and this stranger was so thick that she almost couldn't breathe. She watched him move from in front of the mirror to the back corner, where Joanie was still semi unconscious on the floor. Gingerly, he bent over and scooped up Joanie's body effortlessly. Katie gasped and tried to move, but winced with pain. Probably a cracked rib. Or two.

Not knowing what to think or really what was happening, Katie watched the man place Joanie on the bed in the center of the far wall. He smoothed her hair, but the expression on his face was far from pleasant. Then he stepped over by Katie and picked her up, much the same way he had just handled Joanie. However, he walked back down the stairs with Katie in his arms, her own blue eyes staring back at his.

"What about-" Katie started to ask weakly, but his low growl ended her thought. Peculiarly, Katie wasn't frightened to be in this man's arms. She felt oddly comforted by his touch, and for some reason that didn't bug her. Once they had reached the bottom of the stairs, the man carried her into the living room and set her down on the floral upholstered sofa. She could see out the window there was a large expanse of grass, her little red car, and beside it what she assumed to be was the truck belonging to this unusual man.

He sauntered into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water, thrusting it towards Katie so hard it almost spilled. She smiled meekly and took the glass, bringing it to her lips and sipping slowly.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, somewhat gruffly. His voice matched his outward appearance in a way that Katie didn't know how to explain.

"I inherited this house from my - " she stopped, suddenly angry with what was going on. How dare this man come into her house and make her feel accused and unwanted? What was she doing here? Well, what was he doing here?! The look on her face must have given away her thoughts, because she saw the man's expression change from hard and unforgiving to somewhat calm and relaxed.

"There's just not been that much activity here since Myrtle left it some years ago. I come by to check on it every now and then, make sure it hasn't burned to the ground or the like. Shocked me to see your little car out front and then I felt the earth quake," he explained, trying to give her a little comfort.

"Well," Katie said, starting to feel more at ease, "I got a letter in the mail a few weeks ago stating that this residence now belonged to me. Myrtle was my great grandmother. Joanie and I came to check out the house and everything in it. We figured maybe we'd stay for a few days just to see what it was like."

The man nodded. "I should have known you were related to Myrtle. You look just like the old pictures of her she always had hanging about." He finally took a seat across from her in an over sized chair he had pulled the drapery off of. "I'm Wyatt."

"Katie," she answered.

"You feeling any better, Miss Katie?" he asked with a slight grin. He looked almost good-natured, but Katie was still too shook up about the whole ordeal to think of him as anything other than an intruder - even if he was being kind. She nodded in answer to his question though, and took another sip from the glass of water he'd handed her earlier.

Joanie made her way down the stairs to where she had heard Katie's voice in conversation with one she didn't recognize. Vaguely she recalled the whole house shaking and then she remembered nothing but blackness - just that she had awoken on a bed alone. As she entered the living room, Katie glanced her direction, followed by the strange man.

"Wyatt," he volunteered with a wave of his hand.

"Joanie," she replied, shooting a questioning look at Katie who shrugged. "Tell me about that mirror," she said pointedly at Wyatt. His eyes went wide as dinner plates.

"Tell me you didn't touch the mirror," he pleaded. Both girls looked at each other, horrified.

Love Hesitates (Fiction)

create a story based on this personification: love hesitates

He held the box in his hand, flicked open the lid to make sure the $278 white gold band complete with a princess cut diamond was still in its rightful place. He'd stared at the box, and the ring, too many times to count - to afraid to ask the question he was 90% sure of the answer for. The 'what ifs' were getting to him.

Sighing, he stood up from his bed, closing the box and placing it in the pocket of his black pea coat. It had been there for about a month, but the moment just never felt right. Maybe this type of thing is better off planned... he thought as he begrudgingly shut his dowdy apartment door behind him. He was going to meet her.

She was lovely. Every time she looked at him from across the table, she beamed. Her pearly whites were pearly as ever. He didn't know what to do but stare at her. He held her hand on top of the table as they were waiting for their food. Now is as good of a time as ever... But still, he couldn't bring himself to dislodge the little box from his pocket and show her his purchase. It just wasn't that simple.

He kissed her goodnight outside her door, lingering as long as he dared, putting off the inevitable. If he'd only ask her, then he wouldn't have to keep doing this - this whole goodnight deal. If he'd only ask her...if he'd only ask.

Certain that she'd give him the answer he wanted, he left her at her door and made his way back to his lonely, empty apartment. Her embrace had been so warm, her kisses so sweet. Why was this so hard? He wrestled with his inner thoughts as he lay in bed, ignoring the urge to get up and call her on the phone right that very second and tell her all the ways he loved her and that she should be his forever. He rolled over and closed his eyes.

The park was lovely. The air was crispy and slightly cold, typical of a perfect autumn day. The colored leaves were falling to the ground, and her blue jacket matched her eyes in the best way they could possibly ever compliment anything. He fingered the box in it's place inside his pea coat pocket, but still he was holding back.

She took his hand in hers and wrapped her fingers in the empty spaces between his. She looked at him and smiled, remarking how quiet he'd been all day. He smiled and shrugged and squeezed her hand. Inwardly, his heart was racing. With his free hand, he grabbed the box, but something shouted "NO! Not yet!" And he furrowed his brow a little as he released the box from his grasp.

"What's wrong?" she inquired, her voice sweet and syrupy. She always spoke in a sort of sing song voice that made him just want to do anything for her.

"Nothing, nothing," he lied, sensing that now would be a good time to make his move, but alas, it wasn't meant for this moment either. He was hesitating. He knew he was hesitating. He didn't know how to not hesitate.

"Are you sure? You look uncomfortable?" She stopped walking, jerking him to a halt on a grey stone path lined with deliciously golden leafed trees on either side. Park benches where beautifully old couples sat. The old men catching a bit of a nap and the old ladies spreading some bird crumbs for the stay-behind feathered friends who hadn't flown south yet.

Blood pressure elevated, sweat was starting to form on the edge of his hair line. He grabbed the box in his pocket and without waiting to think, he flicked open the lid. She gasped. He got on one knee.

Tears in her eyes, she looked at him, beaming, waiting for him to say the words she so desperately wanted to hear. He was choking on his words, so full of emotion, so surprised at himself. A month he had had this ring, a month he had been waiting for the right moment. A month was far too long, he thought.

"Will you..." he trailed off, not wanting his voice to crack. People were looking now, the old ladies hurriedly and excitedly elbowing their respective elderly gents to watch the spectacle that was about to unfold.

She nodded, not waiting for him to finish the question. He smiled and placed the lovely piece of jewelry on her delicate finger. As they embraced, the spectators cheered all doe eyed and happy. It was in that moment that he realized hesitation was the wrong answer, and that maybe, just maybe the spontaneous moments in life held the most joy.

Writer's Workshop

I chose prompt 3.


3.) Could a routine become interesting through words?  Write about a person (perhaps you) caught up in a daily routine.  Establish a rhythm with the story’s words that impersonates the rhythm of the routine.


Be forewarned though, it's mildly depressing. I don't know exactly why I wrote it the way I did, but that's what happened when I just let my fingertips flow across the keyboard.

The Local Post

It’s 7:00am. The coffee pot is full. The newspaper is unfolded on the kitchen table. Reading glasses, dirtied from use, lay on top of the paper as if hastily placed there in the rush of the morning. Scrambled eggs, salted and peppered lavishly, await his wrinkly entrance.

The toilet flush can be heard from down the hall, and a few minutes later one unsure footstep after the other can be heard thudding toward the kitchen inhabited only by a rumply old lady and her frying pan.

“Good morning,” she chimes in a chipper sing-song voice indigenous only to those who are what are referred to as ‘morning people.’ The old man grunts in return. He sits in front of his eggs. The fork scrapes against the plate. Neither registers the sound. Neither even knows the sound existed.

His hands with calluses and deep wrinkles from long years of hard work gingerly put his spectacles in front of his faded blue eyes. The gingham curtains blew slightly from the warm summer breeze through the open kitchen window. 

He turned the page of the local Post.

It’s 7:00am. The coffee sits in the pot, its aroma wafting through the little farm home. The newspaper, collected from the stoop that morning, rests on the kitchen table with the old, round reading glasses. Scrambled eggs smell up the kitchen and dining area all salty and peppery and genuinely delicious. They are made with the eggs from the hen house.

The hens are none too happy.

The sprightly old lady has lived on this farm since she married the man down the hall who flushes the toilet and grunts his grumpy way down the hall to eat his eggs. It was a lovely spring wedding in her parents' backyard. She was pretty sure he was the handsomest man on the face of the earth.

“Good morning,” she greats him with the same enthusiasm she’s had since she was nigh twenty. He scrapes the plate with the fork. No one notices. The gingham curtains rustle in the wind, but the screen keeps out the bugs.

The old man, glasses on his broad nose, scans the articles. Nothing that interests him, as usual. Death, destruction, politics. All things he followed once upon a time, but now his ancient blue eyes search only for the weather forecast and the crossword puzzle.

He turns the page of the local Post.

It’s 7:00am. The coffee is brewed, the eggs are scrambled. This morning she drank some orange juice before she set his spectacles on the table beside this morning's paper. 

The toilet flushes.He shuffles down the hallway.

“Good morning,” she smiles. She has a lovely old lady smile, polished dentures and all. Her face lights up when she sees him, still as beautiful as the day he met her. He sits at the table in front of the eggs. He adds the salt and the pepper, forgotten in the haste of the orange juice.

He scrapes the plate with the silver fork. It used to be polished and lovely, but has faded with time. It was a wedding present from her mother. She purchased the silverware in a shop in New York where only the finest things are found.

The gingham curtain sways with the wind. It’s a pretty blue color. It used to match his eyes. He hardly notices the curtains anymore. Threadbare and patched they have hung in the kitchen window since their youngest son was born. He’s now forty three with a wife and two kids. He lives on the other side of the country and never calls.

The old man shakily places his spectacles on his face, bringing the words on the paper into perspective as he turns the page of the local Post.

It’s 7:00am. A woman stands in the middle of the room, tears in her emerald eyes. Her fiery red hair curls around her face. The scent of coffee still lingers in the air, but there are no scrambled eggs.

The toilet is silent. The gingham curtain is still. No breeze blows through the window today. The glass is shut.

The paper is absent from the table. The reading glasses are nowhere to be found.

The woman looks around the empty room. All the fine china has been boxed up and dispersed to those who laid claim to it. She eyes the gingham curtains, she’s known them since her baby brother was born.

He refused to come to the estate, always too busy with his own life to make time for others. The woman took the curtain rod down and rubbed the gingham curtains between her fingers and thumb. Pressing the fabric against her cheek was comforting to her ivory skin, and she sobbed.

No more coffee. No more eggs. No more turning the page of the local Post.