Redoubt

There is a little town in her head, made of tin cans and cereal boxes and exhaust pipes. It sits on a wooded knoll out by where the highway will someday be once Eisenhower does his thing, where the middle class will eventually paint their neighborhoods across the straining landscape, where for a little while longer there is still magic seeping out of the ground like oil.

It is always autumn. She is the town's only permanent resident.

There are other people here and there, by invitation only, imported and expelled following her whim or favor: her mother, always; her father, mostly; certain school friends often; her brother, rarely, only when he is good or it is his birthday. Together they collect turning leaves and four-leaf-clovers and happy memories.

There will come a day when she will get in the car and drive down the hill to adulthood; not today.

20 comments:

  1. Some people never achieve that journey! Lovely tale - whimsical :)

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  2. Beautifully written, and rather moving.

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  3. Lovely. We should all try to avoid that drive as long as possible.

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    1. Or at least make the return trip from time to time :)

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  4. Wonderful, let's hope that even in the future, she can remember the rode back to this fall home.

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  5. Replies
    1. I was inordinately proud of that one. "Kill your darlings", they say. Fuck whoever 'they' is. ;)

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  6. I totally agree! Stay, stay as long as you can!

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  7. beautiful! one of my favorites from today!

    stacy lynn mar
    http://warningthestars.blogspot.com/2014/09/septembers-end.html

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  8. Stay on the hill as long as you can the drive downhill can be painful.

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  9. I look forward to your writing...this opening line is just scrumptious...

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  10. Ah, a beauty! It captures the world of childhood in so few words. I dread the day she will drive downhill though.

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