I write because I want to be remembered. I want to tell grand stories that connect with a wide audience of readers.
I guess at the moment I’m feeling nostalgic for my hometown. I’m proud to come from there and want kids growing up with similar aspirations to mine to see that it is possible.
“Here,” Mom said, sneaking ahead of me. She pushed the door open. Its hinge popped in intervals. The dark cabin felt stale and musty. Mom reached her hands into the shadowed threshold. “Everyone back up. Unless you want to be doused.” We shuffled against the cabin’s siding, clearing the way behind her. With a swoop of her hands, a low wind reverberated through the log home. Mom stepped out of the doorway as a pluming column of dust and cobwebs blew out of the cabin and settled over top nearby ferns. “Mind if I take the bed?” Melinda asked. Mom gestured to the doorway. “Please, by all means.”
She took my hand, and the world around us halted. Mom and Arthur became catatonic. The grandfather clock in the living room went silent, its swinging arm locked in a diagonal. A fly buzzing beneath the warmth of the entranceway table lamp hung still in mid-air, right beneath the beaded switch string.
“Put that flower pot next to the hose… No, not that hose. The one next to the bird bath.” “This one?” “No, the other bird bath.” “Why do you have so many bird baths?” “I like seeing clean birds.”
A 15-Minute Writing Challenge based off the word, "Jostle."