He pushes it open with his left hand. Its squeak is so familiar now. In his right is the empty cradle. He wears a blue jacket that is only half zipped up. In the driveway snow, lingering far past its time, stains the gravel a dark gray. He squeezes close against the black wrought iron railing bordering the small landing they call a porch. Water drips from the corner of the awning. Dark patches of rust show in the corners amidst the threads of spiderweb.
His wife, now with flat belly, moves past him in silence. The maternity shirt she wore to the hospital billows empty before her. She carries a cradle hung on one arm like a shopping basket. The baby inside moves his limbs in short spasms, looking around with wide, gray eyes.
This is the first in an idea I've been dancing around for about a year now.
The book is potentially going to be called "A Thousand Little Things." It'll be made up of viginettes, some a whole chapter's length, some only that of a sentence. Each based around its own individual object. The book will be divided into sections or "rooms" with each of the objects and their viginettes pertaining to that room all building a house. They won't be organized chronologically, but by some manner that seems to make sense once it is done.
The idea comes from this buddhist expression I heard a while ago about "Ten Thousand Things". The idea has to do with the interconnectivity of everything. The book itself is aimed at expressing the beauty in the simplicity of life, and the way things exist not at the forefront, but are still integral.
This is going to be an ongoing one because scenes just are hard to write..
Tuesday, November 20, 2007