(no subject)
So, this is the first chapter of something I'm writing for my creative writing class.
It says "Narrator", because as the chapters change, the narrator will change as well.
& uhhh, let me know what you think.
Narrator
They sat at their kitchen table in silence. A silence like that of dead air on the radio; nothing intelligent to say, no new tunes to play. Like the awkward silence between two lovers after a disagreement, where no words can express their thoughts to there full extent. If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all. This kitchen was as silent as empty streets of an evacuated city before disaster strikes. The erie feeling of an entire ghost town, all built up in this one room. Cars whizzed by on the road outside their house that sounded like bees buzzing by your ear. You could hear a cricket half a block away from this house. Highland Street was always busy this time in the morning.
The paint on their walls was a sky blue to match the color this day had revealed from behind the clouds, and the sun seeping in through the sheer white curtains bounced off of it making the room look pleasant, which it most certainly was not. The blue reminded you of a humid sunny August afternoon spent swimming and drinking lemonade from glasses dripping wet with condensation, and a sky without a spot of white. An unfinished painting. A canvas smeared blue, and left because of the artists’ lack of creativity. Incomplete, like how this entire family feels. Outside of their peach colored house, more like the color of fresh picked fruit from Georgia than the crayon in the 64 pack by Crayola, those colorful sticks of shiny candy the kids used to stick in their mouth’s and get sick on, was a mailbox that read Moore. The mailman used to joke, “would you like some MOORE bills.” But that stopped when the Mrs. Stopped smiling, which was about four years ago. Every so often she smirks, but she’s been drugged up on happy pills for so long her face is too numb to notice she’s showing any signs of emotion, cheerful or despondent.
She hasn’t always been like this. When the family of four, expecting an addition, bought this house seven years ago she seemed to float through the halls of her home, glowing with joy. She had a beautiful home, a loving husband, two children, and one more on the way. She had a love for interior decorating and hoped to quit her dull 9-5 office job to start her own decorating company. She wanted to be an entrepreneur.
Her mother used to call every couple of days. “how’s the kids Abby? How’s the job?” Her name was Abigail, but her mother never stopped calling her Abby, as childish as it sounds. But mom stopped calling when Abby stopped answering. What was there to talk about? Her latest prescription pill? The fact that she hadn’t had sex in over a year?
Well seven years later she’s still filing papers and typing in numbers that serve no purpose. The man who used to give her butterflies now falls asleep on his own half of the bed and never wants to touch her. The sheets in the space between them are always cold. No more quickies before work; their lust is gone. Little did she know, his lust, his romantic gestures, his kisses, all of his attention had moved elsewhere. To a crumby apartment on Third Street where you need to press 4B and wait to be buzzed in. Into a bedroom that’s not his own, onto a bed that hides vibrators underneath it and belongs to some blonde airhead named Cindy who spends her money on manicures and make-up. It’s not that he didn’t care about Abigail, and he sure as hell didn’t give two shits about Cindy. She was just more adventurous. She was something other than the same sex he’d had for the past twenty years. It was the thrill he got from sneaking around. A thrill he hadn’t felt since Abby made him sell his Harley because she didn’t want the kids to get interested in those “killing machines with two wheels and a motor” she would call them.
Well, this Monday morning this family of five is sipping their coffee, drinking their orange juice, or reading the paper. Anything but talking. Silence is something this house has grown used to. The Mr. straightens his tie, and picks up the funnies, but there’s nothing funny. Nothing is funny to him anymore. He checks the decency of his daughter’s outfit over the rim of the gray and dreary newspaper. First day of high school, and he knows how boys are. He tells her to grab a sweater. When the hell did she grow boobs? It seems like only yesterday she was playing t-ball wearing a hat that was too big for her, with strands of strawberry blonde hair hanging loosely from underneath it, coming alive in the wind while she picks up speed down the dirt path as he yelled “RUN HOME AMY! RUN HOME!” He goes back to Garfield’s latest adventure and ignores her mumbling “asshole” while pulling on a sweater that she’ll take off as soon as she’s on the bus.
The boy is sitting opposite of her, in his bright orange baseball cap that’s marked on the inside of the lid with marker. It used to read “Bobby”, but now it’s too faded to decipher. He’s deep into an article in the sports section on weight lifting. He’s been working out all summer. His goal for senior year is to make varsity football and bang a cheerleader. He’s sick of being the only virgin in his group of friends.
The youngest one is preparing for her first day of kindergarten. Her hair in messy pigtails, all dressed in blue leggings and a pink and yellow striped shirt. She doesn’t match, but no one cares. She’s writing her name over and over for practice. Hope Moore. Hope Moore. Hope Moore. She hopes for more attention. She hopes for more affection. She hopes for a regular family. With a daddy who acknowledges her. With a mommy who doesn’t stare off into space and cry herself to sleep. With a brother who does something other than lift weights and jerk off to porn. With a sister who doesn’t roll up her skirts when she walks out the door and lets boys go up her shirt in the back of their cars for cigarettes.
The Mr. picks up his briefcase. The business cards inside next to the box of condoms read “Martin Moore. Attorney at Law”, and heads off to work to make money and fuck his secretary in the janitor’s closet on his lunch hour.
It says "Narrator", because as the chapters change, the narrator will change as well.
& uhhh, let me know what you think.
Narrator
They sat at their kitchen table in silence. A silence like that of dead air on the radio; nothing intelligent to say, no new tunes to play. Like the awkward silence between two lovers after a disagreement, where no words can express their thoughts to there full extent. If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all. This kitchen was as silent as empty streets of an evacuated city before disaster strikes. The erie feeling of an entire ghost town, all built up in this one room. Cars whizzed by on the road outside their house that sounded like bees buzzing by your ear. You could hear a cricket half a block away from this house. Highland Street was always busy this time in the morning.
The paint on their walls was a sky blue to match the color this day had revealed from behind the clouds, and the sun seeping in through the sheer white curtains bounced off of it making the room look pleasant, which it most certainly was not. The blue reminded you of a humid sunny August afternoon spent swimming and drinking lemonade from glasses dripping wet with condensation, and a sky without a spot of white. An unfinished painting. A canvas smeared blue, and left because of the artists’ lack of creativity. Incomplete, like how this entire family feels. Outside of their peach colored house, more like the color of fresh picked fruit from Georgia than the crayon in the 64 pack by Crayola, those colorful sticks of shiny candy the kids used to stick in their mouth’s and get sick on, was a mailbox that read Moore. The mailman used to joke, “would you like some MOORE bills.” But that stopped when the Mrs. Stopped smiling, which was about four years ago. Every so often she smirks, but she’s been drugged up on happy pills for so long her face is too numb to notice she’s showing any signs of emotion, cheerful or despondent.
She hasn’t always been like this. When the family of four, expecting an addition, bought this house seven years ago she seemed to float through the halls of her home, glowing with joy. She had a beautiful home, a loving husband, two children, and one more on the way. She had a love for interior decorating and hoped to quit her dull 9-5 office job to start her own decorating company. She wanted to be an entrepreneur.
Her mother used to call every couple of days. “how’s the kids Abby? How’s the job?” Her name was Abigail, but her mother never stopped calling her Abby, as childish as it sounds. But mom stopped calling when Abby stopped answering. What was there to talk about? Her latest prescription pill? The fact that she hadn’t had sex in over a year?
Well seven years later she’s still filing papers and typing in numbers that serve no purpose. The man who used to give her butterflies now falls asleep on his own half of the bed and never wants to touch her. The sheets in the space between them are always cold. No more quickies before work; their lust is gone. Little did she know, his lust, his romantic gestures, his kisses, all of his attention had moved elsewhere. To a crumby apartment on Third Street where you need to press 4B and wait to be buzzed in. Into a bedroom that’s not his own, onto a bed that hides vibrators underneath it and belongs to some blonde airhead named Cindy who spends her money on manicures and make-up. It’s not that he didn’t care about Abigail, and he sure as hell didn’t give two shits about Cindy. She was just more adventurous. She was something other than the same sex he’d had for the past twenty years. It was the thrill he got from sneaking around. A thrill he hadn’t felt since Abby made him sell his Harley because she didn’t want the kids to get interested in those “killing machines with two wheels and a motor” she would call them.
Well, this Monday morning this family of five is sipping their coffee, drinking their orange juice, or reading the paper. Anything but talking. Silence is something this house has grown used to. The Mr. straightens his tie, and picks up the funnies, but there’s nothing funny. Nothing is funny to him anymore. He checks the decency of his daughter’s outfit over the rim of the gray and dreary newspaper. First day of high school, and he knows how boys are. He tells her to grab a sweater. When the hell did she grow boobs? It seems like only yesterday she was playing t-ball wearing a hat that was too big for her, with strands of strawberry blonde hair hanging loosely from underneath it, coming alive in the wind while she picks up speed down the dirt path as he yelled “RUN HOME AMY! RUN HOME!” He goes back to Garfield’s latest adventure and ignores her mumbling “asshole” while pulling on a sweater that she’ll take off as soon as she’s on the bus.
The boy is sitting opposite of her, in his bright orange baseball cap that’s marked on the inside of the lid with marker. It used to read “Bobby”, but now it’s too faded to decipher. He’s deep into an article in the sports section on weight lifting. He’s been working out all summer. His goal for senior year is to make varsity football and bang a cheerleader. He’s sick of being the only virgin in his group of friends.
The youngest one is preparing for her first day of kindergarten. Her hair in messy pigtails, all dressed in blue leggings and a pink and yellow striped shirt. She doesn’t match, but no one cares. She’s writing her name over and over for practice. Hope Moore. Hope Moore. Hope Moore. She hopes for more attention. She hopes for more affection. She hopes for a regular family. With a daddy who acknowledges her. With a mommy who doesn’t stare off into space and cry herself to sleep. With a brother who does something other than lift weights and jerk off to porn. With a sister who doesn’t roll up her skirts when she walks out the door and lets boys go up her shirt in the back of their cars for cigarettes.
The Mr. picks up his briefcase. The business cards inside next to the box of condoms read “Martin Moore. Attorney at Law”, and heads off to work to make money and fuck his secretary in the janitor’s closet on his lunch hour.