Some people like to write poetry, but I love to write fiction
|I once thought about writing poetry. Poetry that made sense and touched the soul of everyone who reads it. How hard can it be, I thought.
Well, for me, it’s hard as hell. I can find words that rhyme, but when I put them together to make some semblance of order and try to create something meaningful is tough. And, for me, just not worth it when I love writing prose so much.
I can make a bee come alive with personality and purpose, just don’t ask me to make him rhyme. I can create a character that comes alive in a scene that just pops into my head. For instance, in my book Legacy of Pain, Ethel has been more or less kidnapped by an uncle and is deep in the woods of Maine in a vary run-down farm. This takes place back in 1910 and Ethel has been raised by who mother who can no longer take care of her and her brother. The uncle puts them both to work doing chores that have obviously not been done in a very long time. Ethel has been set to clean up the kitchen.
'I thought the smell of the barn was bad; I almost retched at the sight and smell I found in the old shack. I was disgusted beyond belief at the filth of the cabin and when I saw the cooking area I gagged. Filthy dishes were stacked on the sideboard next to the sink and hoards of maggots made the dishes appear to move. I had never seen or smelled anything so gross. Dirt and cobwebs were everywhere. The pails for water gathering were covered with leaves, dirt, and cobwebs and ants crisscrossed the filthy floor in lines. Each ant carried something white on their heads, carrying them to their own homes.
There was no sign of a woman being in this home in a very long time. It smelled of piss, filthy clothes, sweat, and rotted food. I had no clue where to start, but my stomach was growling and I knew I would soon be called upon to cook a meal, so I had to start somewhere. I grabbed some rage and threw the maggot-ridden plates into the pails and went outside to find water.
“Where’s the well?” I called out to my uncle who was talking with my brother, Edward, by the barn.
“Ain’t got one. Spring is down the trail” he snarled before spitting a wad four feet away from where he stood. He pointed to a path that ran behind the cabin. The train was rough and overgrown but eventually, I found the small spring. It needed to be rocked up but the water was clear and cold. I threw the pails into the water, watching in revulsions as the maggots tried to escape the icy water. I shivered and noticed quite a colony of maggots finding their way up my arms. I flicked them away. I washed the top layer of grime off the dishes and then filled the pails with water. My stomach was growling again and I wondered what I could find for food in this dump called home.'
Get the picture? Fiction is my addiction!