I wrote this piece a few years ago at a writing workshop after being given the prompt to create a scene about how and why I became a writer. I reread it every now and then because it still speaks vividly about who I was then and who I am today. I hope you like it.
There’s too many people in this house. That’s what I think. Always, every minute of every day someone is talking, yelling, crying or barking.
The washing machine chugs along in happy agitation while the TV spouts the news or Captain Kangaroo. If not that, then the record player lady sings about some doggy in a window while the boys peg Cheerios at one another.
My big fat sister and my oh- so-perfect cousin live to torture me just because they are two years older and think that’s big.
Freckles, my three-legged dog, still chases cars in spite of the hard lesson that old Chevy tried to teach him and I think the cat had another run in with a skunk. That funky, greasy smell filled up my nose so bad last night I could hardly breathe at all.
Tonight I’m going to beg them til they let me sleep out on the porch. I’ll feel the cool breeze off the creek down the road and watch the clouds move across the sky. I always look for the man in the moon, but not for too long or that wickedy green witch from Oz might show up.
Night smells different from day but that’s all right, night smells can be a comfort. Clean sheets carry sun and rain on them at the same time and night winds can shift, bringing the scent of corn to the air from the big field out back.
The skeeters hum in my ear and leave itchy red bumps that pop out in the light of day, but for now, it’s just the way I like it.
It’s dark and it’s quiet and I can hear the stories in my mind.
Tags: Bobbi Carducci