I have no clue what I’m going to write about today.
Nicky and Mike over at We Work For Cheese are running a writing challenge throughout the month February. Twenty-eight days, twenty-eight entries. And each and every one demands my authoring integrity.
I refuse to just make something up.
The sun is strolling towards the horizon as the air blinks at the crossroads.
One moment, there is nothing but the warm umber rays of twilight, casting tiger-stripe shadows through open blinds onto the walls of whispered basements. The traffic lights of the main drag turn red in solidarity.
The next moment, they stand there, as if they have always been there. A party of six, eclectically dressed but uniform in their dishevelment.
One by one, they step from the road to the western sidewalk and cross the front yard to the house, heralded by shadows.
The first is a man, tall and heroically solid, with short cropped hair. His neatly-trimmed beard is peppered with dried breakfast cereal. His leather jacket has seen better days, with fresh-toothed tears aplenty. The pirate hat on his head sits at a rakish angle, pure Charles Laughton, tho he bears a striking resemblance to Donald Pleasance. He has a shoe missing, but no peg leg.
Next comes a bear, a blue fez atop his head. His Hawaiian shirt is in tatters, and there is a heavy tyre-track on the seat of his cargo pants. His hat and fur are scorched in places, and his limping foot is field dressed with duct tape; they came prepared. He hums a cheery baritone tune absently, in defiance of his state.
A badger trails close behind the bear, his dungarees and thigh-length waders soaked with viscous spittle. He has a fine-meshed netting bag of sleepy ferrets over his shoulder. He fails to light his pipe of tobacco, and makes an exploratory journey into his flat cap to retrieve a cleaning rod. A few prods frees the briar, and he’s puffing happily-but-wearily as he passes under the ash tree in the front lawn.
The woman is next, redheaded beneath her football helmet, a pretty floral blouse and blue jeans beneath her Kevlar body armour. She carries a crate of oranges that have seen better days; not all were needed, but she hates waste as much as mascara. Her feet are bare.
Finally comes the tall man in the gold lamé wetsuit fit for The King. His necktie is laminated, but has still fared badly. His sparkly trousers are torn in a manner that would be fashionable were he twenty years younger. He doesn’t care; these were hard-earned, and not factory-fitted. He sighs as he watches the party lead him away from adventure.
He catches the redhead up as they cross the grass; she hugs him kindly as they step into the house and close the door.
The day is conquered.
And they are home at last.
Sleep will not elude them tonight.
This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2013