So my attempts to write every day of course hasn't panned out, but life has its way of presenting obstacles we must leap over - or climb a huge mountain, depending on the circumstances. In any event, the following is a rambling that hopefully will be understandable and even perhaps entertaining.
"The man walked down the cold cement path to the lone mailbox, thoughts spinning slowly through his barely conscious mind. It was too early in the year to be this chilly, but he knew it didn't matter whether he disliked it or not. Mother Nature had her own thoughts on timing, and it rarely worked out in his favor.
He was anxiously thinking about the mail, hoping the check was there. Too much longer, and he would not have a mailbox to go to. A few spidery cracks had formed in the cement, and he absently made a mental note to fill them when the weather got a bit warmer. No sense in letting everything around him go to hell, regardless if he wouldn't be there much longer.
With one hand, he reached up to pull open the slightly rusted and dented metal door. He peered inside, hoping the blackness was only due to his failing eyesight but realized after a moment that the mailbox was empty. He rubbed a palm over his balding pate, stress beginning to build once more as he pondered what to do. Shrugging his shoulders in despair, he trudged once more back to the door and made his way inside. The money had to be there by Thursday, or he would have no choice left.
The possibility of that outcome was almost enough to break his composure, but Harold was already at the end of his rope. He had already decided that it was too late; the lack of a check arriving was merely one more sign of confirmation. He sat down heavily in the broken recliner, not really seeing the talk show playing on the screen. His dark blue eyes, once bright with possibility, were staring off into space.
The intense feeling of desperation was beginning to build within him, and with each passing moment he began to think of what to do. He stood slowly but with purpose and walked to the dining room table where a revolver sat next to a box of shells. His index finger caressed the barrel almost lovingly, the smoothness of the metal feeling cool under his touch. Mary had been gone for some time now, so there really wasn't much to stick around for. His children no longer came to visit, nor would they be sorry to see him gone. He held no illusions that he was ever a decent father. He was merely the man who had paid the bills, and he had barely managed that much. No, there would be no love lost over him. He reached for the gun, ready to finish what had been a truly disappointing life. The knock on the screendoor interrupted his plans however, startling him slightly. He turned to see who this unexpected visitor could be..."
This didn't turn out too bad, now that I've read through it a second time. I usually don't get a full scope of what I'm writing during the process, because I have a bad habit of overthinking what the right word is. But somehow I make my way from the beginning to the end without too many problems. Its always the beginning that gives me a bit of trouble, but hopefully more snippets like this will help cure me of that. I hope you've enjoyed this rambling. Its been fun for me.