I’ve been outlining the third draft for my WIP. So tragic that I’ve had three outlines. I think it means I’m bad at them. But, in my frequent daydreaming spells, I have found subtlety and theme to the previous two outlines that never manifested in the arcs or writing of their drafts. Perhaps it will find its way this time.
It was a small and desiccated couch. Soft white cotton intestines billowed out of jagged wounds in the cloth, spilt across the sidewalk and tumbled down the street. They had come in the night, anonymous and frisky, and deprived it of any sanctity. Those looters gone back to their dank hovels, cozied into their couches, satisfied that no wayfarer would find their respite tonight. I shook my head.
There were no lights overhead, the cotton like tumbleweed ghosts, shriveled into themselves and if I glanced away, they might have disappeared just as soon.
One end of the couch had its recliner extended, a hand reaching out for help, instead abused and left hanging and hanging. I wonder if anyone will set it back. It’s just a small gesture. I couldn’t stop. I left it there.
I could use a good nap on a good couch, I think. I miss having a reliable couch around. Like a dog always there to pick you up, smile at you, warm and welcoming. Never with a frosty glare or an icy touch.
They call it a cliché: to miss something only once it’s been taken from you.
What if it’s killed in front of you? What if you discover it by chance? Openly slain and displayed for all to see?
It’s dark. No one will see it.
But it’s there.