Poetry, short fiction, and...muffins?
Another somewhat productive day. Two more poems written plus about 700 more words added to the short story. Oh, and I baked some mildly successful cranberry-raspberry muffins, which I may have over-cooked slightly. They tasted pretty good, especially since I ended up substituting yogurt and vinegar for the buttermilk and eggs. Oops. Incidentally but also unrelated (I think -- unless writing it got me in the mood for baking), one of the poems I wrote today is about muffins.
The doorbell rang. He had always hated the doorbell. It seemed to be a person itself, nosily chiming through his sparse apartment with its façade of pleasant charm. Now he hated it more than ever. He would ignore it. He was busy.
It rang again. Harold waited for a last moment, only to hear it come again. He scraped back the chair and slid the book into a cupboard, spine facing away from the cupboard door. Huffing to himself, he huffed to the entryway, slid the bolt back into its holster, and yanked open the door.
It was a policeman, silver badge gleaming against navy polyester. How inconvenient, Harold thought.
The doorbell rang. He had always hated the doorbell. It seemed to be a person itself, nosily chiming through his sparse apartment with its façade of pleasant charm. Now he hated it more than ever. He would ignore it. He was busy.
It rang again. Harold waited for a last moment, only to hear it come again. He scraped back the chair and slid the book into a cupboard, spine facing away from the cupboard door. Huffing to himself, he huffed to the entryway, slid the bolt back into its holster, and yanked open the door.
It was a policeman, silver badge gleaming against navy polyester. How inconvenient, Harold thought.