HA-ppy voting!

Go forth and make us proud!

Reciprocity

I worked out an entire beginning.  Comments/criticism is really, very badly wanted.

It was not the rotten sweetness of three-day old trash that startled her entrance nor was it the thin cloud of fruit flies having descended on the scrapings of her morning dishes. It was neither of these things that left her breathless in the doorway, paralyzed and disgusted by the static nature of tasks undone. “Take out the garbage,” was in fact scratched low on her traveling list of must-dos, and the dishes, and the laundry -- her laundry, defrosting the freezer and sweeping the floors. It was, rather, coming home to her own voiceless echoes – the cold jingle of house keys dropped on pink Formica, the snap of cabinets opened and shut, the airy and almost inaudible buzz of warming television tubes, and her erratic breathing, proof that she may never grow accustomed to this kind of loneliness.

A strict and icy breeze crept through the open doorway, wrapping around her stockinged legs. She was suddenly roused enough to set down her brown bag groceries, snatch the stinking bags of trash and step outside once more to deposit them into the dented metal garbage can, where they would later be claimed. She couldn't help being envious that even the refuse of her solitary life had an explicit belonging to some one and some place. And then she went inside where at least the warmth made it bearable to remember the expectations of making dinner for two and a nightcap before bed with the body of a husband.

Behind her the door sighed shut. She pried off her scuffed mary-janes and thought to put away the eggs and butter before they went bad. She thought also to scrub the dirty dishes in her kitchen sink before considering the bugs a presence she was not ready to part with just yet.

Fiction

I have my first fiction assignment due in a week: a 4-6 page short story, which doesn't sound hard until I started trying to pull a story line from pretty much anywhere I could reach.  "They" say write what you know, yet when what you know and what you write about is tangled up in a cultural adjustment, and when suddenly everyone else is also tangled up in it, I imagine those words and ideas become mighty cliched.  I'm trying to use true influences, since I simply cannot scrap my foundation to write something foreign on this first try.  This is my blind stab at a developing story.  Please leave feedback!  I would much rather read it here than to be bombarded with it in the classroom workshop!

           It was not the rotten sweetness of three-day old trash that startled her entrance or the thin cloud of fruit flies having descended on the scrapings of her morning dishes. It was neither of these things that left her breathless in the doorway, paralyzed and disgusted by the static nature of tasks undone. “Take out the garbage,” was in fact scratched low on her traveling list of must-dos, and the dishes, and the laundry -- her laundry, defrosting the freezer and sweeping the floors. It was, rather, coming home to her own voiceless echoes – the cold jingle of house keys on pink Formica countertops, the snap of cabinets opened and shut, the airy and almost inaudible buzz of warming television tubes, and her erratic breathing, proof that she may never grow accustomed to this kind of loneliness.