Recovery
Sunday, September 23rd, 2007
This weekend managed to be very, very busy. Lots and lots of driving. Very tired now. Should return to writing tomorrow night.
Category: Life
Archive for September, 2007
Cold Harbor: 04
Thursday, September 20th, 2007
Two Lines to Elsewhere
Nobody noticed that Sticks was missing. He didn’t say much and his figure was small and somewhat insubstantial; as a result, most of the children accidentally tripped over him rather than greeting him. The phrase “watch out for Sticks” was often spoken to someone slipping out of bed at night to retrieve or deposit something. Tholamew once tried to name him “picayune,” though everyone agreed that the word was much too long and complicated.
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Category: Cold Harbor, Writing
Intermission
Wednesday, September 19th, 2007
My two primary goals over the course of the Summer were to find a new place to live and get out of my present job. As of the beginning of this month I had moved into a nice new place, and with my two week notice submitted at work I should be out of that place by the beginning of next month. I can’t guess at where I’ll be in another month’s time. I’ll just have to creep forward day by day and see what happens.
Category: Life
Cold Harbor: 03
Tuesday, September 18th, 2007
Rainy Intermission
“Sabotoge,” shouted Tholamew. He paced back and forth, shaking his thick hair with his hands. Between him and the front door stood the others, each tending to their clothes. Charlie’s arms were wrapped around himself, and though he looked the least wet he had begun to shiver. Bones hit a derby against his thigh to clear it of condensation, and Mike had begun to pull off his shoes. Matt “Stacka” Wood had the front of his linen shirt in his hands and was flapping it up and down, revealing a pale round stomach with each motion. Jay the Rope had his arms crossed and was leaning against the doorway with a frown on his face, staring outside.
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Category: Cold Harbor, Writing
Cold Harbor: 02
Monday, September 17th, 2007
A Person in a Name
Thomas stared down at the chipped plate that held his food. There was a wash of eggs, fluffy and golden, next to a thick mass of crudely cut and grilled potatoes. Something wet leaked from beneath the eggs and made its way slowly toward the pieces of potato.
Thomas swung his feet, which only just reached the ground of the long bench that served as his seat. He chewed quietly on his lower lip, his front teeth sticking out just a bit from years of the habit. He dug a fork into the eggs and came away with a chunk, though he only set it back down and looked around through tired eyes.
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Category: Cold Harbor, Writing