A storm outside pelted the house in fat raindrops, thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.
I chose a room with peeling yellow wallpaper and a window over looking the fabulous view of the fields. The tarnished frame had already sat in the middle of the room and I had happily my mattress placed there.
I sat cross-legged on the bed with just me, the typewriter, and Jim Croce on the record player. Between my legs was balanced a box of Kix cereal (kid-tested, mother-approved) that I periodically stuck my hand into and pulled out fistfuls of whole grain goodness to shovel into my mouth.
The Ting Tings was blasting down the halls from Justice’s room. Definitely not the most manly music in the world, but acceptable because it’s Justice. What isn’t acceptable was the stereo being at max. “Oy!” I shouted, pounding on the walls, “Breadwinner can’t win bread with you blasting that junk!”
“It’s not junk! They’re very talented!” Justice shouted back, turning the music up louder. G-d knows I love the guy like my brother, but some days I just wanted to wring his neck. I pounded on the wall and turned up my record player. From the other side of the wall, Justice turned up his music.
I growled, “Fine! You can pay the mortgage then!” I shouted. The music volume went down again in victory.
In the slightly quieter atmosphere followed our short-lived Music War to End All Music Wars I heard pounding. At first, I thought it was Justice, mocking my weak wall pounding, but soon recognized it as coming from another part of the house. Curiously, I crawled off my bed and padded into the hallway.
The hallway was dark as I walked slowly towards the stairs. A flash of lightening lit the corridor and I screamed to see a figure standing next to me. Clutching my chest, I attempted to swallow the numerous vital organs that had just jumped into my throat. “Justice, you scared the bejeezus out of me.”
“Do you hear that?” he asked. We both stood still, listening to the pounding. “Someone’s at the door.”
We both rushed down the stairs and threw open the ancient door. There, on the porch, dripping wet and looking all the world like lost puppies, stood three boys.
“C-can we come in?”
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So, I'm disallowing myself from writing any of my novels today. Which is sorta like its own special form of torture for me. But if I don't take a break, then I will utterly destroy any sense of beauty in the prose and subtlity entirely.
