No title

A first draft of something new.

    Charlie Roundtree owns a little gas station. He has no employees and lives alone in a small house fifty yards behind the pumps.  The house holds a room, the room holds a typewriter and there he dreams of being a novelist. He writes pretty little stories about the people he knows and how much he loves them: the lady at the post office, the coca-cola delivery guy, the dog he found on the road and then buried by the lake; all folks he has never spoken to for more than two minutes at a time. He writes, places the sheets of paper  in a dated manila envelope, places the envelope in a box, the box in the attic and there they are left to gather dust and insulate his house from the cold. The odor of gasoline permeates his sinus cavities and there are times he imagine his hands bursting into flames. However, there are also times the smell of gas on his hands wakes him from his dreams and often he feels crushed by the mountains surrouding his home. He is clausterphobic, smothered  by the emptiness, enclosed in one of the states' last open spaces.

   

 

Author's Note

This is just the first part of a first draft.

Reviews

[Clarisse Nanoit]

(Transplanted from message for formailty's sake) Oh, wow. I love it. :) Even if you don't use it for SICK, use it for SOMETHING. :) It reminds me of my life, even though it's definitely a little sadder than my life. I love this.
KH

[This Page Does Not Exis..]

I love the first draft....it flows perfectly off the page, and begs-the-question....

.... especially like the balance in this piece, its not overly-or underly ....anything....

Let me know when its to be continued :) I sure do miss the days of the Coca-Cola guy....