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Well, this is what I've written so far. It's just the bones, but I'll get to hashing it all out in full soon.
Neither of us had said much since ascending the stairs. My thoughts were on the stability of the floor, thinking about how someone could ever let something get that bad, how anyone could just allow something they love to breakdown, to fall apart. My weight caused the floorboards to bend and creak. I told myself I would never let anything get like that. If I bought a home I would never let it fall apart. I said this out loud without meaning to. It wasn't until Sydney responded that I realized my words hadn't been kept for just myself.
"It's just the natural progression of things," Sydney said as he lifted a board from the ground. He tossed it toward a pile that had been started against the wall. I didn't know where the wood came from or why it was in that bedroom, but my thoughts didn't stay on that thought for long.
"It could have been kept up. Someone could have maintained it, kept its beauty, it..." Sydney raised on finger, silencing me. His eyes were on the ground. He'd found something in the rumble of the decaying house. He gathered something in his palm, his back to me. The floors didn't feel stable enough to support my movement across the room to his side. I stayed in my place as he turned with a smile on his face.
"Most things break down eventually, Cadence," he said as he moved toward me, his hand extending, but his fist clenched over what he had found. He stopped in front of me and said, "No matter how you try to keep things the way they were eventually it's going to fall apart whether you like it or not. But..."
We both stared at his hand. He was impressed with his find. I was curious what could be in his hand. It could be a bug. It could be just a piece of glass. I glanced up at his face, impatient and almost annoyed that he wouldn't just open his hand, wouldn't just show me.
"But," he grinned, "Every now and then you find something amazing in the rubble, something that can last forever."
He opened his fingers one at a time. The dramatics caused my fingers to fold into fists. I wanted to reach out, to pull his fingers open without all the hesitation, but I barely knew the boy. I didn't know how he would react. I didn't know if he would be mad or amused. I moved forward and looked down into his now open palm.
It was a small gold locket on a thin chain. It didn't sparkle or glisten like the gold of my mother's wedding ring. It had faded to a less lustrous brown. There was dirt collected in the design of tiny flowers and birds. I reached out a single finger to run it over the locket. It was beautiful. I couldn't understand how it had emerged from the disaster.
Description, description, description needed. I always just assume people see what I can see in my head. That's probably the hardest part about writing for me. Dialogue? Fine. Characters? Simple. Description? Kill me nowwww.
I don't think I talk about writing enough in this blog. It's something I do every day, but it's become so part of life that I almost forget it happens. At least until something I'm proud of pops out.
I don't think about the Mexico thing. I don't know if I'm going to go. I don't want to go alone, but that's what they're requesting now...I can't do it. I can't go alone. I don't speak the language. I will be scared alone in a city I don't know with so much violence happening there. I need someone else there to make me confident, to help me, to take my places to see things. That's the point of going, right? I told them if they can't send someone down with me then I'm not going. I'm putting my foot down about that. Plus, my family would kill me if I went alone. I don't have to worry about the cartel if my mom were to find out...lol.
Well, I have a lot of stuff to do today before work. Writing might be one of them.
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