Creative Writing
It’s quiet. It’s dark.
Sunbeams shine on the other side of the planet as moon hangs in the sky and the light bulbs are all turned off. To my left, within a room, is the flickering of a large wooden television set that is resting on the floor with its antennas outstretched toward the ceiling, wrapped in aluminum foil. On the screen is written ‘mute’ in red as an animated scene unfolds, fading in and out of static as two people share a conversation behind a desk: a newscast.
Directly across from the television is an opened folding table. There is a worn-out impression on the sofa cushion. Bits of beige padding bulge through torn holes in the fabric, hatched with cat scratches. A short rectangular coffee table with a glass center sits on the floor between the television and the folding table, its legs sunken into the shag carpet; a magazine is opened face down on its surface.
In the corner rests a dark, plaid worn-out recliner contrasting the yellow cigarette-smoke-stained walls. An old dust coated vacuum sits uncoiled on the floor, plugged into an outlet.
There is a faint red glow in the small kitchen, on the stove, in harmony with the sound of bubbling from its hot burner that is boiling a large pot of water, the lid rests on top of the counter.
Turning the knob, I push open the front door and walk into daylight.
Looking down, my hair dangling in front of my eyes, the soles of my shoes are on the surface of the tarred blacktop. I raise my head, eyes following, observing from left to right, a chain-linked fenced – I am spatially positioned in the center of a play area with toppled-over toy cars and asymmetrical building blocks scattered about – the bright glowing ball of light in the sky sets rapidly over the horizon, dropping into the ocean.
Crickets chirp and stars twinkle in the warm summer abyss; the moon intensifies its glow.
A rustling to my right parts two bushes revealing a girl peddling a small, sun-warped and faded, plastic big-wheel bike through a hole in the fence. She rides circles around my legs as the black plastic wheels buzz on the rough pavement from one ear to the other. She speaks as sporadic as her cycling, rambling nonsense with a very emotionally sensitive irrationality.
I walk toward the hole in the fence as she follows
Buzzing.
