Writing is a fine balance between giving enough abstract and concrete information. Certain stories you hear along the way inspire and can be combined with imagined experiences to create a story. Sometimes the two, are combined with such vivid imagery that the listener/writer becomes haunted. I sometimes use this blog to flesh out these hauntings, which bounce around most, as soon as my head hits a pillow. Oh! To have them time to write them all. Silence does not happen much in my life, and my hours are mostly taken, it seems. Bear with me, as I need to record some of them, and they are so not finished or polished, but are here to be revisited.
She first noticed how clean and white his socks were. She didn’t seem to realize the implications of him loaning out the socks. He wasn’t one to give or help. Was it a gesture of kindness? To have a pair of clean socks when you only own 2 pair is one thing. To loan out the clean pair, probably means something else.
There are times in life when you need something. You need something so much that you cannot say it. You cannot make the word, or maybe there is no word. His friends had come, and they wanted to see him. She couldn’t say the words. She needed him to be there, but couldn’t remember what that meant. Her tiny hand was shaking and sweating, as she held a quarter in her hand. It was stuck to her hand, and there was a world in her mind. It was a world where there aprons, and couches, doors that still hung on the hinges. To call, would that be asking for that world? And to make the call, she must remember what the quarter was for…
This wasn’t a place of love, he did not know what that word meant. Somewhere, he felt it necessary to protect. But to protect and to love, well, those are two different things. The police are here to protect and even serve, but they do not love criminals. Maybe they could come to love criminals, but we aren’t sure he will come to love. We do not know the outcome.