kathleen winter (kathleenwinter) wrote in etwentyten,
kathleen winter

live excerpts from assignment 1

Though there are new roads, many of the old horse and cart paths are still visible through the hills.

Was it the colour orange that made her depressed? There was a lot of orange, or maybe faded red, on the rig.

Charlotte and I came close to being separated when my dad, full of good intentions and bent on doing something nice for my mother, attempted to chip her into pieces to frame mother’s flower garden.

...she, her brothers, sister and cousins, would run along the edge of the cliff chasing the boats as they came into the bay. They would run until the boats outran them.

I petted the animals and asked their names, and jumped back quickly if they made too loud a noise. Then Dad led me out of the barn by the hand...

...they walked the kilometer of rocky, kelp-filled beach between their house and the wharf. They skipped rocks, poked jellyfish...

We walked downtown on High Street most Friday evenings to go to a movie. Our movie theatre has been around forever. It only ever has one movie playing at a time, and the seats are uncomfortable, but I have always loved the place.

I tapped the bottom of the paper tube on the kitchen table, making sure the tobacco was in nice and tight, then carefully placed it inside the Tupperware container where Aunt Diane kept her home-rolled cigarettes.

Just off the shore is a little white punt with red letters on it. From this distance she cannot make out the letters, but she knows what they will say. Lily. It is her mother’s name.

...I spot a certain spruce tree I recognize - thanks to the boy scouts - to be my very own.

My grandmother with her white, tightly curled, netted hair; the black cats’ eye glasses; with her weekly "frock", and my grandfather’s magenta, tartan patterned cardigan pulled tightly across her shoulders.

...dark clouds of caplin in the water turn the ocean black... Their small black bodies with their silver underbellies flop around on the rocks and there are tiny fish eggs everywhere.

...she had the form of a woman with a face and two arms folded across her front, and her hands were clasped together as if she was saying a prayer.

He neared the only convenience store and waved to the owner. The store was untitled and referred to only by the owner’s name. It was either William’s or Manning’s, but never William Manning’s. ...Martin could hear someone in the forest chopping wood, and the far-off barks of a loose dog.

Even when discussing his children’s accomplishments at soccer games and in art class, John was able to express his pride only with a hug and a gruff, "Good work".

I remember my parents bringing home so many fish products; nuggets, strips, cod’s heads, tongues. I was so sick of eating, smelling and seeing fish.

...my grandmother plunked a ceramic plate down in place of the red plastic cup, which I had already raised...

I loved the fact that there was at least one window in each room, allowing you to look outside towards a yard or a street, which seemed to me just like a part of the big community park.

I remember my sister finding a shoe among the debris - a boring old white sneaker. A girl’s sneaker, perhaps. A bit of faded colour that might have been pink. Straggly laces. Scuffed out.

The moment when the red-nosed uncle of the groom threw his glass to the floor, and made his way running to the nearest exit, vomiting over himself before plowing through the steel door.

And all his comments are delivered with that smirk. It is always there. No matter what the situation. No matter who is around. He is smiling, smirking at nothing.

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