Almost inaudible jibber-jabber, continuous sound of a conversation going on and on, then someone squeaks, there must be two or more of them, or maybe the person behind the wall is talking to herself.
Sure there are laughs, loud ones, suppressed ones, fake ones, shameless ones. I laugh along but only with one of the ones.
Silence surfaced for seconds, I then pay attention to the pigeon coos’ outside my window and the loud airplane coos’ passing up across my sky.
Oh! The murmur begins. Happy long hours of chit-chatting has ended for the friends. They are now mildly viewing what life has offered them each in the past few months. Yes, few months I say, that is how old the memory stays, unless, of course, it is given the chance to time travel.
I hear a question ‘coffee?’ Evening yawns and gazes passed at the clock welcomes automatically warm beverages.
I yawn and look at the clock and don’t move; I am doodling. O now they are repeating a name, it is Martha, also a Petunia and a Joshua. A triangle I assume, but which one… scalene I think.
After the reverie I become once again aware about my chitchatting neighbours. When and where did the hours go by? There is a lull in the talking. I might doze off.
What is this? I hear rushed movements, I sit up straight, a door bangs open and I jump up and run towards the main door, my focus – the peep-hole. I see two girls, both of same height, one is carrying a bag. What is going on?
One of them says, ‘do you think…?’ The other replies, ‘betcha, she is lying.’ They leave.
I stand against the main door, thinking who were they talking about, Martha or Petunia? Coming back to my room, I lie down and start doodling again.
Ding-dong! I am back on the door, I see a boy standing outside my neighbour’s door. I sense he is Joshua. Eager to know that I am correct, I open the door and tell him that my neighbours aren’t at home; the boy turns to leave when outlandishly I ask, ‘Joshua?’ Right then my neighbour, a girl, looking sleepy, opens the door.
Surprised and embarrassed, maintaining a faint smile, I shut the door. The boy speaks, ‘Ma’am I have a courier for J. Pollack from CITI Bank.’ My ears glued to the main door. ‘Joshua doesn’t live here anymore.’ Slam!
Ideas dance in and out of my mind, there is a story here. I sit down to write. Fresh page, pen in hand, I am thinking…
I can visualize a great writer sitting down and gathering her thoughts for some creativity to come out…that is the picture this post paints…in fact the post in itself is a painting. 🙂 🙂 🙂
Thank you so much.
Trying to switch from 'thinking' to 'writing'.