Peephole

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is an excerpt from a book I am writing. Please leave me some feedback.

Submitted: July 28, 2017

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Submitted: July 28, 2017

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The Northern hills of Norway are dreadfully perfect in the summer. The temperatures are moderate, and never ever extreme. One can sit in shorts and a sweater comfortably and lightly bake their knees while keeping a cool drizzle running down their sides. By standing atop a hill; no hill in particular, shafts of cold rain curtain the local shepard's fields. Skinny and full birches pepper the bright green land in patches of red forests. Pink and yellow and white wildflowers sprout from every inch of dirt that isn't grass or pavement. Horses toss their heads at offensive, speeding trains. The Norwegian summer tradition of gathering around a splintery picnic table for some ice cream is especially cherished on the weekends. The beauty of the place is annoying, because everything is beautiful. There is no question, and this might have something to do with the somewhat dry dispositions of the Nordic people. 

All in all, it is the perfect place to die. 

Although Death is ever lingering, weaving himself in and out of everything, like the want to travel, the way we kiss our mother's goodbye on rainy nights, and the type of cat food Shrodinger receives, he permeates the human mind. There is no escaping him or it, and he knows that. That is why religion is such an indulgence. 

Despite these facts, for a change, none of this was on August Richard Woodson-Beckette's mind as he raced home in his tiny, grey car. Suddenly, every pothole was a moment in his life that he saw something that reminded him of the stars, every crack was a decision he had made that changed his future, every pebble anything nice anyone had ever said to him, every black pebble anything cruel anyone had ever said to him, and every blade of grass was a scar on his heart. He passed the un-particular hill, the shafts of rain, the fields, the red forests, the wildflowers, and everything in between the offended horses and the ice cream families of Norway. He didn't think about any of them, except for the grass blade scars on his heart. In his thirty something years of life, he had never felt more important. 

He had never felt more important passing the blue sky and not dipping his fingers into the center of the rose at the top. He didn't see the white sun, or the lambs in the pasture neighboring his, he didn't see the lovely brown of his house he picked specifically because it matched the color of his husband's eyes, and he didn't see the garden holding the blackberries he named after his grandmother. 

He flew into the house that was made of warm blueberry muffins and sweet morning sex, and left his shoes on the red bell pepper door mat. He didn't take his normal second to remove his suit jacket, and instead took the second to move faster. He could have found his way to the kitchen with his eyes closed, but right now he couldn't even blink. 

His eyes were met with the attractiveness of his husband's back, chopping up red currants for a mint-cucumber lemonade he had been trying to curate. "Hi, honey," lit a flame in August's wool socks, "How was your day?" August couldn't handle the silence, the second long silence, and he hated that his life was ruled by seconds. So he started laughing. He started laughing wildly, and he saw the lovely brown in his husband's eyes churn with confusion as the back of his head turned into the front.  

"River Orly Woodson-Beckette, I have something fantastic to tell you." August was doubled over in absurdism and philanthropy. He put his head lower than his heart as River plied the suit jacket from August's shoulders. August was The God of All Things Sweaty, and River had spent a lifetime accommodating to this fact. They both sat in the rich blue ocean of the kitchen tile, August now shirtless and oozing sensations like a styrofoam cup, and River sat prettily in his moose apron. The dog came in, repulsed by the smell of anxiety, but delighted by the taste of human salt.

"August, what's going on?" River massaged into August's temples. Every Fear He Had Ever Felt came gushing back, and nestled itself on the top of River's throat. 

August took his balmy hands and cupped the sides of River's freckle specked cheeks. 
"I found her, I found her River, she's alive." 


© Copyright 2017 Kay Wintersbru. All rights reserved.

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