Sunday, April 5, 2009

A Little House (Experimental)

Across the street from me, there is a little house. And in that little house, lives a quiet little family. Not a big family, just a little one; mom, dad, and a little daughter. And the little daughter, she has many little toys. She plays quietly in the yard with her little toys and I watch her from my window. 

She has a collection of little dolls. And she arranges her little dolls everyday in the same order. Each day, she hands each one of them a little piece of paper with a little crayon and she instructs them to do something. She wags her little finger in a stern manner; she pretends to be their little mother. 

In the little yard where the little girl plays grow pretty little flowers. There are all kinds of flowers - roses, tulips, daffodils, and even little sunflowers. And the little girl, she loves the little flowers. She waters them from a little tin can and she talks to them in her quiet stern voice. And she brings each little doll to all the little flowers to smell them.

While the little girl plays in the yard with her little toys, the mother sits in a little chair, knitting little socks. She knits many little socks, and each one is of a different color. There is a red one, and a blue, a green, a yellow, black and even a purple one. Sometimes the mother lets the little girl play with the little socks, and the little girl puts the little colorful socks on her little dolls.

One time, as I was watching the little house next door out of my window, the father arrived home from work. He came over to the little girl and he lifted her in his arms. He gave the mother a little kiss on the cheek, and they went inside their little house. At that moment, more than anything, I wanted to live in a little house, with a little girl, who plays with little toys in her little yard, whose mother knits little socks. Isn't that what living is all about?


  1. At first the repetition of 'little' was getting to me, but then I saw what you're trying to do, and the effect was that much stronger in contrast.
    But I'll tell you what living is. Living is a hammock near a stone cottage, overlooking an olive grove in the morning. With a warm hat, a single malt and last night's cigar.
    Are you actually working on your novel after all? I'd like to read some of it.

  2. I won't argue with you on what living is, each his own. Besides, what you describe isn't really all that far from my depiction (if MY depiction it is...).

    Novel?...yes, I am trying to work on it, although sometimes I tend to forget the word. I've read too many good ones, it seems, and am having my own bouts with masterpiece-dom. At the moment, I don't really have anything to show, so I'm afraid you're going to have to wait. How long?...who knows? However long it takes me to tap into the master within!