May 9, 2011

Story Starts

I always hated getting under the house until then I didn’t.

_____

“I wish she would quit bringing that bean salad. It always reminds me of how Bud kept losing his shoes.”

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In the treehouse, above a sea of water hemlock, she said I could touch her if I wanted to. She said it didn’t matter. And so I did. And it didn’t.

posted by in fiction, writing | * | 6 comments 

comments

  1. Sheila Ryan on May 9th, 2011 at 4:32 pm

    Dang old bean salad. Mama Bailey’s Temps Perdu Three-Bean Salad.

    It’s them yellow wax beans that set a person to remembering.

  2. Kelsey Parker on May 9th, 2011 at 4:33 pm

    That last one breaks my heart a little, Daryl.

  3. Sheila Ryan on May 9th, 2011 at 4:47 pm

    Under the house: Cece and the giants of Wichita Falls.

  4. Carole Corlew on May 9th, 2011 at 5:03 pm

    Oh definitely #3, I’d like to read more.

    And under the house can be a mystical place. I followed Dan the babysitter under the haunted house on the Indian mound because he insisted I’d see some graves under there. We crawled around all under that old mansion. There were no discernible graves, he was just pulling my leg. But that old mound knows me now.

  5. Sheila Ryan on May 9th, 2011 at 5:18 pm

    I want to peer under the house there in The Narrows, Carole. In Tennessee. Where your daddy was raised up.

  6. Daryl Scroggins on May 9th, 2011 at 5:56 pm

    At bean salad’ll stay like it is in the compost pile while all the rest goes dirt vagina.

    Also–Carole: don’t you know why a man would want to pull your leg under a house? (just kidding, my dear).

    Also–Kelsey: yes, and thank you. Writers hope to be heart breakers, in the good way.

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