Intruded

For some reason, I had a hard time with this assignment and really thinking of what to write. Do I focus on the fear? the descriptions? the vulnerability? Focusing on a lot of things at once kinda makes my head explode. So here's the result of my brainsplosion.

POV 1:

She was dicing the carrots at two in the morning when she heard it. She stopped mid-dice and cocked her head to one side, one hand on the knife, held up in the air above the chopping board, the other resting on the edge of the board and holding down a half-chopped carrot that was screaming bloody orange.

Silence. She set the knife down and scratched her head, itchy from the red hair dye that was setting and drying against her scalp. It was probably nothing, she reasoned, but her pounding heart told her otherwise. Still, her mind prevailed. Get the onions. She turned slowly, mechanically, forcing herself to swallow away the sense of vulnerability that was choking her. Once she had the onions in hand she whipped back around towards the sink.

Thunk, thunk, thunk. Her knife kept time with her sinking heart. Suddenly--a slip! and she whirled around, back towards the fridge, checking to see if anyone was watching, as her quivering mouth nursed her bleeding finger. Really, she resembled a little kid trying not to wet her pants during a scary movie. Just take away the hair dye and the smeared mascara, and she looked about five-years-old, at the moment, complete with the runny nose. Ugh. She blew her nose and used the glossy refrigerator door as a mirror while she rubbed away the mascara. All the tears were making it run. Probably, it was the onions. But she kept the knife close while she rubbed, just in case the tears were the result of legitimate fear, and not the onions.

She loosened up a bit as the stubborn mascara came off. But suddenly--there it was again! A squeaky swish-swish sound. She almost jabbed her eye out when she heard it, and before she knew it, she'd grabbed the knife, and her ridiculous legs were throwing her forward, heart in mouth, past the corner, and into the hallway that led to her violated house door.

POV 2:

His teeth were....itching. So he'd good-naturedly gotten up, up from the soft spot on the floor where the carpet hadn't been flattened and matted yet. He'd go out to the front yard and grab a stick fallen from the tree in the yard, perhaps. It was a simple enough goal, the kind that you don't plan for. Like how Mommy got up from bed in the middle of the night to make vegetable soup because she was hungry all of a sudden and dyed her hair at the same time, because she wanted it to be nice in the morning.

But he had to belly-crawl his way through the small kitty door. It was growing a bit tight, grabbing his middle a bit on all sides. Eventually he pulled his way through. But again, his feet were still too big for him, and his tail too heavy, and he stumbled down the short cement steps. Before he knew it, he was stuck in the brambles. His breath wheezed and squealed in pain. Forget the stick. He wanted Mommy now. Cowed, he bobbed and staggered back to the kitty door.

Desperately, he nosed the door open a little and began to inch forward a little. It was easy enough, at first. But the thorns and burrs were starting to hurt, and the kitty door made a terrible protesting sound every time he moved, and the middle was impossible, sticking the pointies even deeper into his fur. He was stuck on all sides, uncertain of how to back out or move forward. Not even the smell of vegetable soup was enough.

Put me in, Coach!

ehehehehe.

Mariana “Mari” Ni twirled a lock of her fading red highlights, her glinty, deep carmine nails shooting off light in all directions as the real-estate agent blah-blah-blahed on and on about the paperwork she’d need to fill out. Mari just kept smiling and nodding, smiling and nodding, as her attention drifted off to what felt like the other half of the planet. She sat leaning strongly to the right, her elbows supporting her and her sharp jaw ensconced firmly in the palm of one hand. As soon as she detected a break in the agent’s word-vomit, she got up, quick and agile, like a big cat, smiling her most charming, glossiest, and fakest lollipop smile as she wrist-flicked her phone open in one fluid motion.

“Sorry, excuse me. I think I need to make a quiiick phone call.”

She scooted out of the room, as quickly as anyone can manage when they’re wearing blazing red 4-inch pumps.

To tell you the truth, she kind of died a little inside when she saw the house. As soon as the door closed she slapped her phone shut and sighed. She was moving into a dump—a dump with dumpy neighbors and a dumpy yard growing pitiful, dumpy weeds in a heavy, dumpy atmosphere. She winced. Times weren’t good. With the economy splatting its guts all over the place, the country’s stockbrokers started freakin’ out.

She needed a break—needed to get away from the cutthroat world of unpredictable business and enjoy some nice weather in a place that was close-by and affordable. But who knew? Nice weather doesn’t mean everything else isn’t dumpy.

Assigned Blog Post #4

...so now I need to make suggestions for our town....This really notches up my freak-out factor. It creeps me out a lot more now that I'm contributing ideas to a class thing....which means what I write might be *gasp* exposedddddddddddddd. oh dear.

hm....I think it's already implied, but it would be interesting to intensify the semi-rivalry between the two halves of the town. It kind of creates a source of conflict, which also implies that there should be a resolution later, right?

...maybe the rivalry can be intensified by something like class differences (although i guess that would be sort-of controversial? I don't know) or maybe the town is decisively divided by something ridiculous like VEGETARIANS vs. MEAT EATERRRS (roar) or just an issue that tends to divide people into two major categories. Greenpeacies vs. BP Oil drillers (jk, just emphasizing the idea of duality)

The most dangerous part of town is in the south side, where the two halves connect a little bit. Under a dumpy, gray highway all of the violent fights and confrontations of the town take place. Although Carillon Point has a reputation as a wonderful, quaint vacationing spot because of its wonderful weather, the shadow of highway bridge 78 goes unmentioned to outsiders. It's the town's dirty little secret. And town members simply hope that no unfortunate tourist goes wandering there...