The air sizzled in the summer heat as the thunderstorm in the clouds rumbled for the umpteenth time. Joanie sat on her front porch swing, her bare feet dangling beneath her smoothed out skirt, the colors that of a rich July sunset. She fixed her gaze over the banister, letting it graze on the trees in her yard which stretched out, kissing a dirt road which snaked between her home and the Fleet Street Cemetery, population: one-hundred and four. There was an itching in her head, beneath her hair follicles, buried inside her skull--an itching her fingers could never reach, so she tried to ignore it, but it was overwhelming. Perhaps, she thought, it’s the cicada, but the rain had forced them into their burrows.
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Sheldon opened his eyes. The room was dimly lit by the cloudy sky outside, shaded sunlight gently seeping in through the blinds. The candle on his desk was melting over the wooden top and dripping on the carpeted floor below. He erected himself, shifting his swivel chair into a standard position, his eyes still in a haze after his nap, and the dull white paper, tucked into the typewriter, still blank. Three months, and nothing, he thought, placing his elbow on the armrest and his head in his hand. Once the fog in his eyes subsided, he scanned what he called his “library,” a single bookshelf of random books he’d gathered over the years, few of which with broken spines, all unexplored. His eyes shifted back to the blank page in front of him, and he sighed. There was no expectations placed on him by an outside source. There were no deadlines or due dates. There was simply an urge, and urges, as Sheldon had seen, all far too often detrimental. He cringed at this thought, swivelling his seat around to face the window instead of his desk. He watched the wind gather in the trees, the grey clouds dance ever so subtly in the sky, and world outside grow darker. His thoughts raced, out pacing the clouds. He thought back to his job, to the day he threw his papers in the air and shouted “I quit” to no one in particular. He thought back to the moment he stormed into his boss’ office, claiming to be a writer, claiming to be better than the job and everyone else dumb enough to stay, claiming to be in the right frame of mind to make such a drastic change, claiming to be so financially stable at home to not need to work any longer. His thoughts raced, out pacing his ability to withstand the sadness that began to wash over him. |
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March 2017
AuthorTony is actively working on several writing projects including a play, a novel, short stories and children stories. Some of these items may appear on this page, and others may appear on the store page (not active). Categories
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Awards:for "Just Like Mommy"
for "Pim & the Open Drain"
for "Pim & the Glass Jar"
for "One Drink."
for "No Prince."
for "Neither would he."
for "The Burning of Pounce"
for "Revelation, Part Two"
for "Precise Specifications"
Tony's bookshelf: favorites
This book has stuck with me since I finished reading it over three years ago. I was deeply fascinated by the story being told from the point of view of such a young child, and the way he tells the story is so viscerally devastating and b...
by Ernest Cline
From start to finish, this book had me excited! I struggled putting it down. Although many of the references went over my head (because I have yet to enjoy such nerd culture), it didn't matter. The concept and the pure exhilarating joy o...
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