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Description
I’m writing this in red pen because it was the only pen I could find in the dark.

I was locked out for the first time tonight. Locked out of my own home. It wasn’t on purpose, it was an accident, but it still hurt. Is this what being left behind feels like? No, that’s much worse. In fact, I want to cry just thinking about it.

I was upset, but I didn’t want to knock on the door (or my little brother’s window which streamed lamp light onto the gravel driveway) at 1 in the morning because I didn’t want to scare him. So, I went to the back and crawled through the hazardous carport by the light of my phone that lights this writing. I had my arms packed full with stuff I had taken over to Bubba and Mandi’s, and a wall of ice chests stood in my way. It was like climbing around and over large boulders in the dark of the Amazon with arms and fingers packed with necessities to survive the trek home: Laptop, water, heavy bag, cellphone, and blanket.

Of course, the pride of carport cats came jumping and bouncing off junk like well-trained (and hungry) acrobats. Jaguars and ocelots of the jungle that escaped from the circus, ganging up on any unlucky traveler with constant mewing and purring.

Precious, fluffy things that I love but am slightly annoyed by.

I made it to the steps, tripped on unused soda cans, and dropped Earendil’s star. It went dark and bounced through the opening that lead to the bowels of the trailer-house and for a few seconds my not-so rational childhood fear of giant spiders and other monsters came out of nowhere. 23 years old and heart racing, Howard Shore’s score of screeching violin strings and deadly trumpets came back from frightened memory.

Long story short: I got the phone, fought the “Bear” of the Baskerville’s kisses, shushed my mother before we woke anyone else, and made it to my room--which was as hot and muggy as Tom Kenny playing Starscream (the radiant heater was too high).

I just now noticed that my butt pocket must have changed the clock on my phone from digital to analog style. Though I’m an adult and obviously well-read, I cannot read that original style of time unless I stare, squint, and point as I try to count with my fingers. I’m no impaired, just rusty.

The time is 2:16am and despite me wanting to describe the hunt for a tank top through winter clothes with the same need that a man in the desert digs for water (in the dark and without waking my twin), I am thirsty and hoping--praying-- that I sleep…and not have dreams of giant spiders.

Description
I’m writing this in red pen because it was the only pen I could find in the dark.

I was locked out for the first time tonight. Locked out of my own home. It wasn’t on purpose, it was an accident, but it still hurt. Is this what being left behind feels like? No, that’s much worse. In fact, I want to cry just thinking about it.

I was upset, but I didn’t want to knock on the door (or my little brother’s window which streamed lamp light onto the gravel driveway) at 1 in the morning because I didn’t want to scare him. So, I went to the back and crawled through the hazardous carport by the light of my phone that lights this writing. I had my arms packed full with stuff I had taken over to Bubba and Mandi’s, and a wall of ice chests stood in my way. It was like climbing around and over large boulders in the dark of the Amazon with arms and fingers packed with necessities to survive the trek home: Laptop, water, heavy bag, cellphone, and blanket.

Of course, the pride of carport cats came jumping and bouncing off junk like well-trained (and hungry) acrobats. Jaguars and ocelots of the jungle that escaped from the circus, ganging up on any unlucky traveler with constant mewing and purring.

Precious, fluffy things that I love but am slightly annoyed by.

I made it to the steps, tripped on unused soda cans, and dropped Earendil’s star. It went dark and bounced through the opening that lead to the bowels of the trailer-house and for a few seconds my not-so rational childhood fear of giant spiders and other monsters came out of nowhere. 23 years old and heart racing, Howard Shore’s score of screeching violin strings and deadly trumpets came back from frightened memory.

Long story short: I got the phone, fought the “Bear” of the Baskerville’s kisses, shushed my mother before we woke anyone else, and made it to my room--which was as hot and muggy as Tom Kenny playing Starscream (the radiant heater was too high).

I just now noticed that my butt pocket must have changed the clock on my phone from digital to analog style. Though I’m an adult and obviously well-read, I cannot read that original style of time unless I stare, squint, and point as I try to count with my fingers. I’m no impaired, just rusty.

The time is 2:16am and despite me wanting to describe the hunt for a tank top through winter clothes with the same need that a man in the desert digs for water (in the dark and without waking my twin), I am thirsty and hoping--praying-- that I sleep…and not have dreams of giant spiders.