WET BLANKET
I sat before the computer, reading the few words of the challenge, and wrote the first thing that came to mind.:
"He wants me to write what? A story about snow removal? What, like how the plow guy charges me $70 bucks every time he has to plow my driveway, and he's some middle-aged geezer not worth looking at twice? (Do you know how much money that is, in a hard winter with a lot of snowfall? For a plain guy? Sheesh!) Or maybe I should talk about how we don't get our driveway plowed till other more important -- and wealthy -- people do, such as the neighbors next door, whom we've seen drive up their driveway less than five times in the seven years we've been here? Or maybe he wants a story about the fact that snow removal on our one-lane dirt road doesn't happen till it happens on every other road in the neighborhood.
Now don't get me wrong! I'm not mad or anything! Personally, the longer the plow guy takes to clean my driveway, the happier I am! After all, if I can't drive down it, I can't go to work, and these days, NOT going to work is a very, VERY big deal with me! It's the highlight of my week! Mini vacation, here I come! And the longer he takes to plow it, the longer my winter wonderland can remain intact, pristine...and I can enjoy the sight of the delicate hoof prints made by the deer.
Now, snow plowing is an art, I'll have you know. There's a symmetry to the plowing, and whenever I watch them drop the shovel and push the snow ahead into a bank, it soothes something inside me, like real art does, like music does. It's like sweeping, or mopping, which have the same effect on me. I feel a sense of utter satisfaction, that something is being cleaned, cleared, renewed. Watching the plow ply the snow is cathartic -- don't ask me why, just accept it!
Okay, okay, I know this isn't a story yet. Don't be so bloody impatient! I'm getting to that part!"
I needed to get that moan out of my system, before I started again, on a fresh sheet of paper, so to speak...
"The snow had finally stopped falling, and the silence was as clean and crisp as the air. It was a thing of beauty, which, as someone said, is a joy forever. Even after the snow melts in April, that moment will remain embedded in the part of my soul that captures and enshrines the peaceful times. Anyway, I was sitting at the desk in the office, writing and looking out the window at the landscape. I was feeling inspired -- the lovers were in front of the fire getting it on, so to speak, or off, depending on your perspective, and the storm was raging outside, to match the one raging inside. Things were getting hot and heavy on the screen, when the snow plow turned up the driveway.
For some reason, that broke my concentration. My man was poised in mid caress, unable to move lower to capture the lips of his lover, whose arms hadn't quite managed to pull him down to her, and there they stayed as I watched the plow do its thing. First, it cleared a path at the end of the driveway, and then it swept up, pushing the snow before it. Great white, fluffy mounds of feathery ice, piling up on one side, as he had the plow turned to the left. I watched in a kind of dazed way as he backed down the driveway, and plunged forward again, plow turned to the right. The hillocks of snow deepened and heightened on either side of a sloping upward path.
I looked down. My lovers were still suspended in mid embrace, the juices flowing, as much as the adrenalin, not to mention the testosterone and progesterone, and the pheromones were saturating the scene. And still...nothing. I couldn't find the words to help them finish what they had begun. The inanity of watching the plow clear a path for our car to drive up and down, the speciousness of the idea that watching the snow was helping me write, the helplessness of losing the words that would complete the moment -- sort of like losing the erection before the climax -- all weighed heavily on me.
The plow was now at the top of my driveway, as my couple should have been at the top of their game, if you get my drift. The truck moved backwards and forwards, pushing the snow into little hills around the edges of the driveway, avoiding the garage door, which meant we'd have to shovel the snow away from it when he was done. The whole activity began to take on the aspect of an altered sexual act, with the snow and plow as the lovers, engaged in a dance of perverted desire.
And even then, deviant as the thought was, nothing spilled over onto the screen where my lovers languished. The plow guy knocked, was paid, and departed...and I'm sure you can imagine what I thought about HIS role. Yeah, you guessed it...he's the pimp! Talk about a sick and twisted mind!
Talk about a wet blanket! My lovers are still stuck in amorous limbo...all because of snow removal.
I sat before the computer, reading the few words of the challenge, and wrote the first thing that came to mind.:
"He wants me to write what? A story about snow removal? What, like how the plow guy charges me $70 bucks every time he has to plow my driveway, and he's some middle-aged geezer not worth looking at twice? (Do you know how much money that is, in a hard winter with a lot of snowfall? For a plain guy? Sheesh!) Or maybe I should talk about how we don't get our driveway plowed till other more important -- and wealthy -- people do, such as the neighbors next door, whom we've seen drive up their driveway less than five times in the seven years we've been here? Or maybe he wants a story about the fact that snow removal on our one-lane dirt road doesn't happen till it happens on every other road in the neighborhood.
Now don't get me wrong! I'm not mad or anything! Personally, the longer the plow guy takes to clean my driveway, the happier I am! After all, if I can't drive down it, I can't go to work, and these days, NOT going to work is a very, VERY big deal with me! It's the highlight of my week! Mini vacation, here I come! And the longer he takes to plow it, the longer my winter wonderland can remain intact, pristine...and I can enjoy the sight of the delicate hoof prints made by the deer.
Now, snow plowing is an art, I'll have you know. There's a symmetry to the plowing, and whenever I watch them drop the shovel and push the snow ahead into a bank, it soothes something inside me, like real art does, like music does. It's like sweeping, or mopping, which have the same effect on me. I feel a sense of utter satisfaction, that something is being cleaned, cleared, renewed. Watching the plow ply the snow is cathartic -- don't ask me why, just accept it!
Okay, okay, I know this isn't a story yet. Don't be so bloody impatient! I'm getting to that part!"
I needed to get that moan out of my system, before I started again, on a fresh sheet of paper, so to speak...
"The snow had finally stopped falling, and the silence was as clean and crisp as the air. It was a thing of beauty, which, as someone said, is a joy forever. Even after the snow melts in April, that moment will remain embedded in the part of my soul that captures and enshrines the peaceful times. Anyway, I was sitting at the desk in the office, writing and looking out the window at the landscape. I was feeling inspired -- the lovers were in front of the fire getting it on, so to speak, or off, depending on your perspective, and the storm was raging outside, to match the one raging inside. Things were getting hot and heavy on the screen, when the snow plow turned up the driveway.
For some reason, that broke my concentration. My man was poised in mid caress, unable to move lower to capture the lips of his lover, whose arms hadn't quite managed to pull him down to her, and there they stayed as I watched the plow do its thing. First, it cleared a path at the end of the driveway, and then it swept up, pushing the snow before it. Great white, fluffy mounds of feathery ice, piling up on one side, as he had the plow turned to the left. I watched in a kind of dazed way as he backed down the driveway, and plunged forward again, plow turned to the right. The hillocks of snow deepened and heightened on either side of a sloping upward path.
I looked down. My lovers were still suspended in mid embrace, the juices flowing, as much as the adrenalin, not to mention the testosterone and progesterone, and the pheromones were saturating the scene. And still...nothing. I couldn't find the words to help them finish what they had begun. The inanity of watching the plow clear a path for our car to drive up and down, the speciousness of the idea that watching the snow was helping me write, the helplessness of losing the words that would complete the moment -- sort of like losing the erection before the climax -- all weighed heavily on me.
The plow was now at the top of my driveway, as my couple should have been at the top of their game, if you get my drift. The truck moved backwards and forwards, pushing the snow into little hills around the edges of the driveway, avoiding the garage door, which meant we'd have to shovel the snow away from it when he was done. The whole activity began to take on the aspect of an altered sexual act, with the snow and plow as the lovers, engaged in a dance of perverted desire.
And even then, deviant as the thought was, nothing spilled over onto the screen where my lovers languished. The plow guy knocked, was paid, and departed...and I'm sure you can imagine what I thought about HIS role. Yeah, you guessed it...he's the pimp! Talk about a sick and twisted mind!
Talk about a wet blanket! My lovers are still stuck in amorous limbo...all because of snow removal.
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