Freewrite #1 (Day 595)

in #freewrite5 years ago

Trot. Trot. Trotting. The sound of the words mimics the sound of the hooves. That's what Ernie was thinking as he drove the buggy down C.R. 43 in Millersburg, Ind.

Or was he?

I walked along in the almost knee high grass, and looked at the house where I had grown up. It was abandoned now, and it had looked abandoned for years. When us kids had been there, it had been full of noise and life.

There were ten of us, so you'd expect there would be some noise.

I remembered back then as the sound of the hooves on concrete faded away. We used to have a garden in the summers. We'd either sit out on the porch, which now had grey paint peeling off it, and snap beans or early in the mornings we'd be out in the garden weeding.

I remembered how much that sucked, when the weeds and plants were wet and you were getting mud under your fingernails and between your toes. But at least it wasn't hot.

The wind whipped through the grass around my ankles. Inside the dark windows, framed with faded
white, I could see the ghosts of my memories dancing.

...

Check out the freewrite project here.

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