January 2, 2006
Leaves
From a writing prompt: Write a 250-word story about a pile of leaves. Just a little excercise.
They were a symbol of everything wrong in their marriage. Dark and dank, their colors muted after days spent drying in the autumn sun. They had carpeted the yard, shed by the oak tree that sheltered their one story red brick prison. She had nagged him about the unsightly mess, nagged him about what the neighbors would think. He had finally gotten enough of her insults, her pleadings and finally, her veiled threats. Like he couldn’t cook his own damn dinner. But he would do anything to stop the endless drone of her complaints, so he grabbed the rake from the shed and began to gather the leaves into a large pile in the center of the yard. He even raked the ditches. The smell of dampness lingered in his nostrils as he leaned on the rake, gasping for breath. He surveyed the yard, standing next to the pile that she would insist he burn, now that the raking was done. Nothing he did was enough. They yard was tidy now. Clean, devoid of leaves, and of character. Just like every other house on the street. All brick, all tidy, with sparkling clean late model sedans parked in their two car garages. Tidy, like her life would be without him in it. He dropped the rake on the pile and jingled the keys in his pocket as he walked to his own car, leaving the rake, the leaves and the tidy house behind.
