A True Sketch

So, the original idea for this blog was that it is a sketchbook for me to post my "sketches". It's a way for feedback. I haven't used it the way it was meant to be used since I started blogging. So here goes. This is a rough draft of a story. Email me with any notes you might have. Make it constructive. Don't just tell me you love it, mom.

Sample

Please say something, she said.

I sat there with my feet twisted around the legs of the kitchen chair, legs chewed gnarly by our deaf and blind dog, Mathis. It was two weeks after the accident, two weeks after the funeral. We still had the pictures up. We still had the vases full of flowers, pink and brown, smelling like sweet decay. Mom knelt in front of me with a hand on each shoulder begging me to talk about it, but there wasn't anything to say even though there was so much. My Uncle Ben and Aunt Pat were there too, standing statuesque behind Mom. And behind them, Dad paced. Mathis pinballed his way around the kitchen. The soft clank of his body hitting a cabinet, the swoosh of his furry side sliding along the wood. He moved in circles still, a sheltie who never learned to stop herding. It used to be, maybe a year earlier, he would herd us all morning long as we opened presents on Christmas. Except now, in his blindness, he herded people less. It was closer to “The Yellow Wallpaper”.

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