Curling Flower Spaces

A writing exercise today, I think. I’m going to take the first line of a novel and then add onto it. The first line of William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury, I think.

Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting. Shcock! Shcock! Smell of heat into my head but then dirt smell, too, next to my nose. My body against the cool browness where the dogs like to lay. Then I can see the yellow blur as it touches the gray line and pancakes. Not for long but I can see it. Like the pancakes Baba makes me for breakfast and puts on butter that slides off and melts and then she pours the brown syrup that pushes the butter around. But butter is real and this pancake is not real. So yellow it hurts my eyes. There are dancers’ feet on the gray that move back and forth and stop like teepees. The curling flower spaces chop off the dancers’ feet as they follow the yellow pancake. It’s like this: The yellow pancake against the gray line and then it disappears as the dancing feet on one side move and shift and set onto the ground and the Shcock! and then the pancake again against the gray and the other dancing feet moving and setting and Shcock! It is so pretty the movement and the sound and the movement and the sound. But now something is wrong. The too-yellow pancake is gone and two of the dancing feet get bigger and squeak. They are angry shoes. They are coming.

What I’m Reading Today: Not much. Had some fabulous company.