fragments / no. 1 / raspberries

Wednesday, February 4, 2015


I watched as all the liquid absorbed into the towel. It was a small puddle, but still, I was down on my hands and knees with a blue towel, wiping it up. Afterwards, I pushed back and sat against the lower cabinets. I held the soggy towel in my hand and traced the grout between the tiles. I sighed. It was time for me to apologize, time for me to admit I was wrong. I had stolen something from you. It wasn't until much later that I realized in the act of theft, I had also stolen something from myself.

It was that day we spent in your bedroom. It was a mid-summer thunderstorm and the clouds were dark and thick—like a piece of felt had been placed over us and we got to hide for a day. (In retrospect, that's probably why I had the impulse.) You left to get us  bowl of raspberries. It was while you were gone that I took it. You came back with the fruit, and we stained our fingertips and then our mouths, and you left hot pink marks up my legs where your lips had been. The clouds were still dark. I was still hiding.

I walked home later, the smell of rain and the kind of dampness that makes the whole world seem settled. When you found out what I'd taken you didn't talk to me again.

One of my big goals for 2015 is to write everyday, with a particular emphasis on writing fiction. I hope to post a fragment of this work around once a week. Being a novelist is a goal I'm hesitant to put into words, mostly out of fear, but I'm doing it anyways. Thank you for reading along and sticking with me while I practice putting stories and words onto the page. 

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