A Slice Of Life

This month I decided to change it up a bit and write fiction.

I sat down this morning with the intention of writing a short story. I sat. And sat. I scribbled words in a notebook until finally, a character appeared. She’s riding her bike. Is she in Pennsylvania or Florida? Who is she? Why is she riding her bike? Those are all questions I asked while writing. The wonderful thing is I had no idea where the story was going or why it turned out as it did. My words are like clay that I plop down on paper and then twist, turn, and toss out until something recognizable appears. Writing brings me joy. Creativity fills my soul.

LIFE

Faster and faster, she pedaled wind blowing wisps of hair across her face. Living on a dead-end street meant safety from speeding cars. Her thoughts focused only on the obstacles in front of her, potholes, and random nails from the construction of new homes on the once empty lots. She pressed her lips together and picked up her speed.

Ten laps around the neighborhood equaled nine miles. More importantly, it meant exhaustion. She had read that the best-behaved dogs were the ones that got the most exercise. Now she understood. It worked for humans too. Tired body, tired mind.

She parked her bike under a palm tree next to the driveway. Sitting on the prickly grass, she took off her helmet, chugged water from her thermos, and laid down, hoping she had avoided any red ant mounds. She’d know soon enough.

Sweat trickled down her forehead. The thick air pressed down on her. Clouds drifted low and heavy. She took off her sunglasses and stretched her arms to her sides. Rain was minutes away. She waited.

A minivan pulled onto the driveway next to her bike. A woman with a mask got out carrying a box. She sat up and waved. The woman nodded, set the box on the covered porch then drove away. Amazonesia had set in. Later she’d open the box and marvel over the laundry detergent or apple cider vinegar that was inside. Perhaps she had ordered a new lamp to replace the one bleach destroyed. She couldn’t remember.

A group of graceful egrets flew in formation. One broke from the pack and landed on the electric wire gazing down at her as if to ask why she was sitting on prickly grass in the middle of the summer with a storm approaching. They stared at each other, neither one seeking shelter, while the wind blew stronger, forcing the egret to display its amazing balancing talent.

The pine trees swayed, dropping their needles like rain. Off in the distance, she heard the familiar tone of the lightning siren. She sat. The egret’s tiny feet gripped the wire. Nature could soothe life or take it.

“Fly away!” She called. The egret didn’t answer, of course, it was a bird. She shook her head and laid back down, waiting for the rain. Wind rushed through the trees. The siren sounded again. Midafternoon darkness was an everyday occurrence.

She closed her eyes, waiting for the droplets to signal the storm had arrived. Soon she’d be soaked in a tropical shower. She waited.

When she opened her eyes and sat up, the egret was gone. She was alone squinting at the billowy clouds that had drifted overhead. Light shone down.

She put on her sunglasses, climbed back on her bike, and began pedaling.

Photo by Michael Rodock on Unsplash