Status: Just a little cute something that'll be written when inspiration or boredom occurs.
Breaking Suburbia
Chapter Three
Maggie couldn’t get a good night’s rest.
But whether she was sleeping at night or in the day was a debacle, all around the house were blackout curtains to protect her from the sun; it was only on rare occasion she drew them back to let the fragment of nature enter her life. Yet, even then it was still a guessing game to what day, week, or month it was.
She knew it was summer though, she could tell by the bugs that were buzzing just a pane of glass away, they were cicadas. It seemed as if the things never shut up. They actually drove her mad enough in the hours of the presumed night that she considered leveling off the thickets upon thickets of roses her mother once tended to so precisely in the gardens that circled the home. Maggie’s mother would roll over in her ivy covered grave if she saw what Maggie had let the gardens become.
Letting a sigh escape her lips, the quilt was thrown off in a bustle. For some reason, the flimsy cotton pajamas seemed like the perfect attire for her to stomp out of her room, put on a pair of flats she hadn’t worn since high school, and trudge into the openness of her back yard. The grass was about up to her waist and she could already feel the ticks climb up her stubby pale legs. Like Maggie suspected, it was the wee hours of the morning when the dawn threatens the lower regions of the sky with its hopeful pretenses.
Maggie advanced towards the back of the yard and threw open the door only to be hit with a wall of mustiness emitting from the shed in strong levels. Before it would engulf her and feed into the most strong forehead thumping migraine she would ever encounter, she grabbed the lopping shears and took out into the yard, hacking away at anything she saw.
Cicadas flew from the branches, and Maggie would cringe away and yelp every time one would take flight. She refused to care about the neighbors, though she saw porch lights turn on and lights in children’s rooms on the second floor of the house across the street turn ablaze. She must’ve been a sight, and the thought made her smirk. The crazy young woman who never comes out of the house destroying the rosebushes in her pajamas, grunting each time she nearly throws her lithe self onto the tops of the prickly mess along with the steel blades of the shears. Maggie knew she was always the gossip of the neighborhood, being the illegitimate daughter of a well-meaning woman, but these actions would really catapult her into the topic of discussion in the garden brunches.
“Ms. Maggie?” A quiet voice rang through the stale air. Her breath heaved up and down, slowly rotating her head to the front gate. This was the last person she needed here, not that she was all too fond of people. As they made eye contact, Maggie knew she had gotten herself into trouble. She should’ve just ignored him. “I’ve always wondered who lived in this house,” he quipped, a smile twinkling as he flashed it so casually.
“Hel-Hello.” Maggie stuttered, trying to find the best way out of this scenario.
“You know it’s been a week since you’ve been to the shop.”
“No I didn’t.”
Chester chuckled, tugging on something that Maggie could not see. A guttural growl came from the source and Maggie felt the heart in her chest completely stop fluttering at the rapid pace it was moving at. Dogs are beasts.
Chester clicked her tongue at whatever was restraining against the braided cords he held in his hand. He clicked his tongue as if it were a child, not the monstrous horror that Maggie could only fabricate. “Is that?” Maggie clutched onto the shears, though her hands were beginning to perspire from either the nervousness or the amount of sudden onset physical labor.
“It’s just my dog.” Chester shrugged his shoulders against his blue flannel.
Maggie gulped, joyful that she kept the gate locked and secured from the outside world. There was no doubt in her mind that she’d run back into the house at the sight of furry animal. “Everything alright?” Chester inquired, laying a hand on a wrought iron spike, the leash hanging around his wrist nimbly.
“Yeah, how about I come down to the shop at twelve?” Maggie lied, biting her lip as she stared at her arms, covered in rose thorns and dried blood. Something inside of her was telling her it was going to be a summer to remember, but Maggie had fought fate before, and she wasn’t afraid of repeating history.
“Alright, don’t bail on me sweetheart,” Chester smiled, continuing down the street. When he was far enough away to not pick up on anything out of sorts, Maggie ran through the yard. Clobbering up the stairs, she flew through the door like a flash flood, taking everything that mattered, solitude, with her through the doorstep.
Once inside the safety of her home, Maggie realized she ran out of her shoe. Chest heaving, hand rustling her hair rampantly, she agreed she was in no state to go outside to retrieve it.
And she agreed that she was in no state to go into that guitar store today.
But whether she was sleeping at night or in the day was a debacle, all around the house were blackout curtains to protect her from the sun; it was only on rare occasion she drew them back to let the fragment of nature enter her life. Yet, even then it was still a guessing game to what day, week, or month it was.
She knew it was summer though, she could tell by the bugs that were buzzing just a pane of glass away, they were cicadas. It seemed as if the things never shut up. They actually drove her mad enough in the hours of the presumed night that she considered leveling off the thickets upon thickets of roses her mother once tended to so precisely in the gardens that circled the home. Maggie’s mother would roll over in her ivy covered grave if she saw what Maggie had let the gardens become.
Letting a sigh escape her lips, the quilt was thrown off in a bustle. For some reason, the flimsy cotton pajamas seemed like the perfect attire for her to stomp out of her room, put on a pair of flats she hadn’t worn since high school, and trudge into the openness of her back yard. The grass was about up to her waist and she could already feel the ticks climb up her stubby pale legs. Like Maggie suspected, it was the wee hours of the morning when the dawn threatens the lower regions of the sky with its hopeful pretenses.
Maggie advanced towards the back of the yard and threw open the door only to be hit with a wall of mustiness emitting from the shed in strong levels. Before it would engulf her and feed into the most strong forehead thumping migraine she would ever encounter, she grabbed the lopping shears and took out into the yard, hacking away at anything she saw.
Cicadas flew from the branches, and Maggie would cringe away and yelp every time one would take flight. She refused to care about the neighbors, though she saw porch lights turn on and lights in children’s rooms on the second floor of the house across the street turn ablaze. She must’ve been a sight, and the thought made her smirk. The crazy young woman who never comes out of the house destroying the rosebushes in her pajamas, grunting each time she nearly throws her lithe self onto the tops of the prickly mess along with the steel blades of the shears. Maggie knew she was always the gossip of the neighborhood, being the illegitimate daughter of a well-meaning woman, but these actions would really catapult her into the topic of discussion in the garden brunches.
“Ms. Maggie?” A quiet voice rang through the stale air. Her breath heaved up and down, slowly rotating her head to the front gate. This was the last person she needed here, not that she was all too fond of people. As they made eye contact, Maggie knew she had gotten herself into trouble. She should’ve just ignored him. “I’ve always wondered who lived in this house,” he quipped, a smile twinkling as he flashed it so casually.
“Hel-Hello.” Maggie stuttered, trying to find the best way out of this scenario.
“You know it’s been a week since you’ve been to the shop.”
“No I didn’t.”
Chester chuckled, tugging on something that Maggie could not see. A guttural growl came from the source and Maggie felt the heart in her chest completely stop fluttering at the rapid pace it was moving at. Dogs are beasts.
Chester clicked her tongue at whatever was restraining against the braided cords he held in his hand. He clicked his tongue as if it were a child, not the monstrous horror that Maggie could only fabricate. “Is that?” Maggie clutched onto the shears, though her hands were beginning to perspire from either the nervousness or the amount of sudden onset physical labor.
“It’s just my dog.” Chester shrugged his shoulders against his blue flannel.
Maggie gulped, joyful that she kept the gate locked and secured from the outside world. There was no doubt in her mind that she’d run back into the house at the sight of furry animal. “Everything alright?” Chester inquired, laying a hand on a wrought iron spike, the leash hanging around his wrist nimbly.
“Yeah, how about I come down to the shop at twelve?” Maggie lied, biting her lip as she stared at her arms, covered in rose thorns and dried blood. Something inside of her was telling her it was going to be a summer to remember, but Maggie had fought fate before, and she wasn’t afraid of repeating history.
“Alright, don’t bail on me sweetheart,” Chester smiled, continuing down the street. When he was far enough away to not pick up on anything out of sorts, Maggie ran through the yard. Clobbering up the stairs, she flew through the door like a flash flood, taking everything that mattered, solitude, with her through the doorstep.
Once inside the safety of her home, Maggie realized she ran out of her shoe. Chest heaving, hand rustling her hair rampantly, she agreed she was in no state to go outside to retrieve it.
And she agreed that she was in no state to go into that guitar store today.
♠ ♠ ♠
I was listening to "50 Words for Snow" by Kate Bush while I was writing this. It's an okay listen, but it put me into the best sleep of my life.Album wise, it's a continuous flow. You don't know when a new song ends or begins.