blondie978
She spit the cherry pits on the ground, her cackle crackling like heat lightning.
"Such a racket!" she cried, flapping her arms like bat wings. The eccentric frenzy combined with her expression, dazed under cobwebby lashes, made her look like something from a secondhand store. Truly a relic of attic trunks and junk drawers, her cotton dress was worn through with one two many summers spent bleaching in the sun and then stewing in the evening dew.
She cupped her hands like a nest, smiling a smile which, face perched precariously as it was on her tiny little angular shoulders, made her look somewhat top heavy. The white and milky raindrops clung snugly to the white door frame, and one pearl slipped eagerly into her little dry hands.
The treaty remained unsigned. It sat on his desk, the runny ink of its words colliding like so many spiders, legs stumbling together drunkenly.
It was the bare necessities that mattered, she remembered as she wiped the baby powder off the table where the child had lain not moments ago. The bare necessities, she recalled from that childhood song, that silly movie, and being mindful of this was what kept her dress white, her posture erect, her eyes full of keen equanimity. Up against the Rousseau-like tangle of sour colors of vines that grasped at the window panes, this was what kept her floating like lone punctuation in a nonsensical children's book, the margins which imprisoned its characters and made even imagination behave.
The destruction of the hurricane was minor at best. Disappointing, even, she dared to think as she muddled her way through the detritus that had become her yard, gray as thoughts. She had marvelled at the storm's ability to skirt the recesses of her untroubled mind, the supposedly dramatic winds not even making a dent in her thoughts as she went about her business of boiling tea, pondering over boys, gazing at a pile of homework which ought to be done, and she could not decide whether the stability of her mind was that of an oasis or a stone.
The manager looked down at my from beneath his ginger mustache. I had to resist the urge to flick the point of it to see if it would fall off; it had always looked as though it was attached with Scotch tape to me. At the moment, however, as it was quivering with anger, I decided against it.
I remember thinking his maroon sweater was too hot for the spring weather. It was the kind of day that slipped up on you unexpectedly, chill in the morning but rife with sunlight that began to melt off of the air in great slabs by the afternoon. It illuminated the shards of glass stuck into the cement of the pavement and the grass in all of its equally pewter glory, robbed of color from the winter freeze.