Welcome Home (and a little rant)

Just to say: I am proud of websites like Wikipedia and WordPress for their efforts against ridiculous legislation like SOPA and PIPA , which would do immense harm to the user created Internet I care so deeply about. Read up on these laws as well as the equally ridiculous Digital Millennium Copyright Act .  Decide for yourself if these things create a free and open Internet, or one where big money and governments decide what information you can access. Read up on alternative solutions to the copyright dilemma. Our digital world needs newer, progressive ways to deal with these issues. Ideas like Copy Left and Creative Commons  are good places to start. End Piracy, Not Liberty

That said, here is some fiction that I wrote. Read it. Then, if you enjoy it, share it with others who might enjoy it. Please. I want you to share it…everywhere. 

Welcome Home

She slipped out of the shower without a towel, dripping dry. The mirror over the sink, steam fogged, showed only the outline of her body, her head blending into the curtain directly behind. She reached up, pushed her hair back, let go and felt the heavy wetness of it slapping into her back. Taking a towel from the rack, she wiped away the condensation from the glass. Looking right into her own blue eyes, she took a deep breath and held it tight, letting color fill up her face and pressure build in her throat. Breathing out, she put the stopper in the sink, turned the faucet to cold and filled the basin. She took another deep breath and shoved her face as deep into the water as she could. For the thousandth time she wondered if this is what drowning felt like; that rising sensation, her lungs screaming for air, her eyes starting to push out from her head. This was nothing like drowning as it was absent of fear. She could raise her head at any point. There was no danger, no one pushing her down or miles of open sea to impress upon her the hopelessness of it all. She lifted her head from the sink, took the towel and wrapped it around herself.

From the bathroom she could hear him rustling through drawers in the bedroom, likely looking for the perfect socks to match the shoes and pants he had already chosen. He was very competent at that sort of thing. Neatly matching each outfit, coordinating pants, shirts and shoes in a way that at first was disturbing, but later became something comforting, something consistent. Shoes were his weakness. He owned close to one hundred pair in all sorts and for all kinds of functions. On the day he purchased the pair of shoes so that his collection doubled hers, he took her out to dinner to celebrate. It was easy to imagine him dressing, see him taking the perfectly pressed pants off the hanger in the closet, removing the lingering hairs off with a lint brush. He would next, meticulously match the belt and shoes, then reach for a shirt to complement the colors and fabrics, something plain with a collar, tucked in at the waist. She could see as he ran fingers across his thinning hair, though he never tried to hide it or let it bother him at all. Cropped short to his head, he’d had the same style since she had met him almost five years ago. Consistently constant, while so many people were so flighty, easily tossed here and there by whatever whim, style or event that came along. It should be admirable. It should have left her feeling supremely confident and safe, here with this man who was so easy to understand.

She left the bathroom and heard him call to her from inside the walk in closet. His voice always subtle. “Did you want me to drive you back?” He said, double checking himself in the tall mirror just inside the closet door. “I should be ready to leave in five minutes, it’s really no trouble.” Her reply hung in her throat, lingering there, clinging, so full of determination to stay where it was, warm and complete. She didn’t bother fighting it, just walked up behind him and put her arms around his waist, leaning her full weight into his back. He was always better able to handle their parting moments. “Get dressed.” He whispered. “Get dressed and I will make you some coffee, then we can go.” She released him and he walked out of the closet and out of the bedroom. Looking around, she felt a familiar heaviness from the bed, sheets, blankets, chairs, pictures on the wall all staring back at her, a stranger in this place, so unwelcome and unwanted. The house knew she did not belong. Opening a drawer in the beautiful walnut chest she gazed at the items inside. Silk camisoles, bras and panties, all belonging to some other woman. This bedroom belonging to a husband and wife. A man making her coffee in the other room and a woman away on business, once again.

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About fenster

There are some who call me, Tim?

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