I've written a story. And it's too short and too melodramatic, but I'm going to post it here anyway. What else is a blog for?
*story warning*
She stopped telling the story in the middle, and shut the book with a bang. It just wasn't worth anything any more.
Leaning over, she folded the blankets back, and tucked the covers in. She plumped the pillows, and folded the nightgown, placing it carefully at the foot of the bed, and walked downstairs.
Opening a drawer in the kitchen table, she found a rag, an old diaper, and ran a little water on it. She scrubbed at the floor until her fingers were wrinkled. She put the rag down.
She walked over to the cupboard with glass doors, and took down the good plates. She carried them over to the sink, and gently set them down in the soapy water. She submerged her hands, and picked at a little bit of dirt under her fingernails. Her sponge was shaped like a duck, and bright purple. She cleaned the good plates, and stacked them carefully on the counter.
Heading back to the cupboard, her wet hands dripped onto her stomach, and down her legs. She flinched away from the cold. Going to a different section of the cabinet, she pulled down pieces of brightly colored plastic, and brought them to the sink. She placed them one by one in the water, and left them there.
The bookshelf was in the living room. She walked over, and began to alphabetize the books. Conrad came after Carroll, but before Dubos. Tolkien came after Shreve and before Tolstoy. She picked
Goodnight Moon up from where it had laid on the shelf. She put it between Austen and Byatt, and walked away.
