unlikely things: in which the timid author shares (snippets of a story)

I summon my bravery (or, rather, what I have of it) and bite my lip, and give you snippets of some of my stories.

A scattering of socks falling out of a basket of clothes that had been washed, but not folded and put away. Cereal boxes emptied days ago, but left to garnish the table instead of being walked two steps away to the garbage pail, that was in shameful need of being run out.

Dishes were washed, but left to drip dry in a heap, leaving the cabinets more or less empty at all times.

Papers were strewn around the coffee table, doodles, sketches, newspaper clippings, mail opened jaggedly, as even though she owned a letter opener, she had no idea where she had put it.

She shuffled out of her bathroom, the purple toothbrush in her hand as she brushed her teeth while walking distractedly around the house, looking at the general messy clutter surrounding her.

With a stretch and a sigh, she kicked at a blanket that had fallen off the back of the couch and now lay directly in her path.

She really needed to clean.

-Hello Snowflake

“Morning, January”

“Morning, Channer”

Thus was the greeting between them each morning, he would come downstairs, his hair wet, a towel in his hand. She’d be standing at the stove, so absorbed in whatever she was cooking that she wouldn’t even turn to smile at him. Her brow wrinkled in concentration as she tried her very best to be sure the pancakes were perfectly rounded, cutting around the edges with a knife if they weren’t. Or slicing fruit so that each piece was to be the exact size and shape as the last.

He assured her each morning, it didn’t have to be perfect. It didn’t have to be.

But she insisted, she had to make it perfect. It had to be.

January always had her reasons for doing things, even if they didn’t make sense to anyone else.

-Moshi, Moshi

He burst out of the alley into a main street, and nearly right into the oncoming path to a vehicle. He put one hand on the hood as the car’s brakes shrieked in an effort not to run the young man into the pavement. He vaulted himself over it, and threw a cocky wink at the driver, a suit and tie driver whose face was as blanched as could be expected.

He dodged traffic a bit more, and finally reached the sidewalk, and turned around to see the Officer trying to follow his pursuit with less talented tact.

“Mind that red car coming in on your left!” London shouted, and laughed as the Officer jumped out of the way of a vehicle that wasn’t even there.

He loved his life.

He took off running again, so he could have at least a decent head start before the traffic allowed the Officer to pass safely and resume his pursuit.

-Splash of Purple

How many hours had she spent, arranging roses against baby’s breath? Working the colors together to form a masterpiece as prized as an art painting.

But they only lasted for a few days, the flowers slowly lost their pristine, they dropped browning petals on the tables they were set on, and they became an eyesore to the ones who placed them there, and were tossed out to be replaced without a second thought.

Flowers were easily replaced by another flower of equal beauty, no one could tell the difference between one rose from another.

Or one Violet from another, a violet was simply a flower that wasn’t even cultivated, but grew wild, their blooms many, and who could stand in a field of them, and point out one from another?

Perhaps they were all, in fact, the same.

-The 100 Year Queen