Kimberly is calling

I drove by Kimberly's house again today. I didn't realize where I was until I saw it out of the corner of my eye. I didn't mean to go down that street, certainly wasn't ready for that just yet. It was the traffic, and old habits, that took me there. I just can't stand to sit at a red light. Dang my impatience! It's always causing me grief. Today was no different.

The empty green chair was sitting there, slightly rocking in the breeze. The gently movement is what first caught my eye. The way the light was coming through the leaves of the willow tree, and the slight rocking of the chair, it's as if she were there, like old times, rocking and laughing, long blond hair flowing like the delicate branches of the tree. The tinkling of the wind chimes could have been her laughter .....

"What kind of idiot are you?" screamed the lady behind me as her horn so rudely tossed me from my pleasant dream back to the harsh reality of loneliness. "The dumbest sort there is Ma'am", I replied. Boy, isn't that the truth! Dumb for turning down this street, dumb for leaving the office right at 5pm, dumb for letting her go, dumb for so many, many things. This traffic mishap was the least of my recent stupidity.
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I have started, and shared, a few fictional stories. It has been months since I have felt like writing, and I wasn't sure if I would ever finish them. I know I want to write stories, but I thought maybe these first ideas and characters were duds and that I should start over someday, with new ideas. Lately I keep thinking about them. It sounds weird, and a bit cliche, but it's like the characters are my friends. I care about them and want to work out their stories. I want to know what happens to Kimberly as she figures out the mystery of the dead Kirby guy. Since I am the one that invented the quandary, I need to figure out how the rest of the story unfolds.

I keep thinking about that house, the one with the red bricks and concrete. I see the green chair on the porch, and the people laughing and talking. I can feel the texture of the concrete, and the imprint it leaves on my hands from sitting there. There is a story there. I started it months ago, and posted it as "Cracks in the Concrete". What I wrote above sort of describes another one of the scenes in my mind. It needs more work, but I want to write as the thoughts come, rather than waiting for them to be perfect. This new hobby is certainly a work in progress.

To answer Tif's question, I think that maybe my entire brain was missing in action as it flopped from left to right, or something like that.