Work in Progress Wednesday!

[tjs_whatnot]

Wednesdays man, they're like the Black Hole of the week.

Remind me that I need to update this journal with RL going ons sometime soon, k?

But for now, WORKS IN PROGRESS!

Give 'em to me! Read and encourage others!

I swear I will have something to share this week! I gotta sift through my files and find something (ANYTHING!) That has promise,

P.S. People reading this on LiveJournal, if I don't comment over there, ping me. I sometimes don't get notified, and it's so quiet over there, that I forget. :(

Comments

[tjs_whatnot]

Since I haven't any fanfic in the works right now--not really, not anything that I'm writing on the regulaar--I thought I'd share some original that I would like to finish sometime in the near(ish) future. Any thoughts or suggestions welcome:

Story is called "Laundry Day" and it's a short(ish) story about loss and finding the missing pieces in the most unlikeliest of places.

With one hip, Irene held the back screen door open. The laundry basket bent over the curve of the other hip, the plastic digging into the flesh. She didn’t even notice as she clutched the clothes pins in the free hand, blowing the sweaty hair so that she could see. It didn’t work but she hadn’t really expected it to. With a sigh she walked out of the cooler air of the house and the loud drone of the fans and into the quiet and oppressive heat of a West Texas July.

Life since Tom's death had been lived in steps and routines, with no thought and certainly no feelings. It had a new timeline, a new marker-- before Tom's death and after. The everyday actions of it weren't too much different except before was called a life and after was called enduring. Before, mindless chores had been done while daydreaming of a limitless future. After, mindless chores were done while thinking of a past that felt like they had happened to someone else.

As she hung the faded beach towels in slow and practiced repetition she thought of the beach, she and Tom had talked of going in with friends for a place in San Pedro. They talked about it every summer when they went for that one weekend they could afford. It was a delusion, of course, but it didn't stop Tom's fairy tale planning, or for her to get swept away in the illusion.

"What about a place like this?" Tom asked.

They were walking along the beach, holding hands, looking at the houses high on the cliffs.

She looked at the mammoth house and nudged into him. "Be serious."

"Oh? We're being serious now?"

She smiled. "I guess not, but even dreams should have limits of some sort, no? To be slightly believable and seemingly attainable?"

"Perhaps you're right, darling. Perhaps." He put his arm around her. She snuggled into his shoulder. The wind had picked up and her cover up and her long hair whipped around them.

Half a mile down the beach she stopped them and pointed to a bungalow on top of a dune. "Now, that could be our dream house."

He squeezed her shoulder. "Even in this lifetime too. Good eye."

She continued to think of their seaside moments as she continued hanging the bedding, towels, clothes: shirts, pants, scrubs, panties. Then she reached for a new piece of cloth and brought it to the line before freezing, a chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the wind.

Tom's boxers.

[elrhiarhodan]

How beautifully elegiac.

And the last line - that is a killer. I wantneed to know what happened, why were a dead man's shorts in the laundry?