The gate stood open. He straightened and stared down the road beyond. Dust blew up and he squinted through it at the house beyond. Each step was one he’d taken a thousand times before but had avoided for sixteen years. His steps were heavier now.
The air tasted of rust. It always tasted of rust on the dusty road. His sister’s letters traveled down this road and brought him word of the family. He read them and put off writing back until he grew ashamed. Now he was back and she waited somewhere behind the door of the house in the distance.
The man carried a small bag. He could not stay long. He would say pay his respects and then the change in seasons would call him back to the mountains again. Each year took a little more effort to convince the tourists to part with their vacation dollars and he did not trust the shop to run without him. He was a man of some weight there and must return.
He stood at the door now. The sun was hot on his neck and his face cooled in the shade. He breathed the rust-air and prepared his words.
Not much to say here, just a stab at writing basic declarative sentences. I really need to start knowing where a story is going before I begin writing once in a while.
Maybe you don't need to know where it is going right away. I just finished a biography of Tolkien. He was quite a ways into Lord of the Rings before he sketched out a basic plot.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Julie. I'm trying to get back on track with a couple story ideas and that's encouraging, though also terrifying- it's a big leap of faith to keep going without any destination.
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