Rough drafts for revision….
A draft from Sally:
She had never wanted to be surrounded by the white picket fence. The crock pot kids and mini-van were the things she avoided with backpacking weekends, brewing in the mountains. Late nights, camp fires, stars, dark beers, they were what she lived for.
That was, until he came. In his black suit and maroon dominated tie. He displayed her in his Audi, at the theater and Turkish restaurants, places that had always been repressed by the essence of earth and smoke that used to shield her clothes. She had left behind her Levi’s and Gortex, the superimposed stash of her being and replaced them with the crystallization of his Gucci and diamond bounty.
But it wasn’t the dresses or earrings that ensnared her in a life that had caused bile to fill her during her days of mountain climbing and sleeping in lean-tos and back year BBQ grills. It was the way they looked at her. The way, when she walked down the street, people’s eyes turned and met hers and she would grin coyly and let her chin fall even though temptation loomed. And that was when he remembered her, when he saw past his offerings and suddenly his arm was around the small of her back and their hips touched and he left a rumor of his lips on her cheek.
The next thing she new she was camouflaged in white and roses, wilting in the noontime sun. The primary colors of the forests where she thrived were painted over by stifling pastels and designer drapes that encased the four-bedroom two floor house. Her house. Their house. Then came the babies, and mini-van, and the white picket fence. Evenings once spent adventure telling spurred by dancing camp-fires were now spent watching Lifetime and HBO specials, trying to mask days consumed by planning disheartening PTA activities and MADD bake sales.
And that’s when the pruned life began to cave in. And in place of his arms constraining the temptation of foreign glances, the white picket fence loomed, encasing her in a banal existence. Protection, that’s what he had said the gate constituted; and every time he left for his 20 story cubicled existence he locked the gate behind her, no rumors left behind, only her.
Then his being took over and it became late nights and TV dinners alone with the HSN. Where there were fights silence emanated, only filled by the drone of the television and the sleepless couch. The proximity of the fence stifled and she became consumed with thoughts of mountains and small unknown burger joints, and life unencumbered.
That’s how the tornado thoughts perpetuated, that evening, as she stood in the dark entryway, waiting. His reality would bring him back, and she was ready. The latch turned and the door opened; the light evaporated him, only leaving the sound of his keys reaching the floor.
“What are you doing with those suitcases?”
Questions: Can you follow the story? Is the ending too vague? What do you think of the word choice/language?
A draft from Sally:
Please note: I couldn’t keep some of the formatting when I copy and pasted so it looks different in word form.
around the lines
that never leave;
not permanent, but perpetual.
from it’s antecedent
Is the formattting too much?
Where could there be better word choice? What words would you change?
What is the tone/image you get from the piece?
Should I expand on the theme of beauty?
A draft from Melissa:
out of the way of Acadia
cool calm customers
make up words
careening through caverns
escaped from fate
disguised in black
whispering watery words in witty whirlpools
never to be red
1. Is this too silly?
2. Is preposterosity too confusing of a made-up word?
3. Should the last word be read or read/red to make the double point clear?