Dirty Dishes

A short thing I found in my leather journal.

Fading sunlight filtered in between old curtains, framing the large bay window, lighting the enormous pile of haphazardly placed dishes sitting in the sink. Plates painted with cheap swirling designs that were hidden behind the smears of day old food, were mashed between coffee mugs and glasses. A soup pan threatened to topple from its perch above its dirty domain. This tribute to meals pass stood in a tiny apartment kitchen, decorated with inexpensive furniture. Beyond the kitchen a living room that held a similar appearance. The only difference between the two rooms were the piles of tatted paperbacks alighting nearly every available surface. 

 *Note: I was experimenting with longer, drawn out sentences. I was reading the Count of Monte Cristo at the time and, while reading a series of crazy long sentences, thought, "Hey! I can do this!" Unfortunately the story ended with a partially written sentence that faded into a poorly drawn picture of grumpy cat. I had also scrawled NOPE into the page. 

Reviews

[Marie]

Actually these aren't very long sentences at all. I'm read sentences that were as long as your whole story.

Back in Dumas' time they were inclined to write that way...