Feeling the need to contribute
I'm beginning a new writing project:
I raised the drape on the bay window at the front of my house and leaned forward to open the windows and peer down the street. Across the street Mrs. Conailey was sitting on her porch busying herself with her favorite retirement activity; terrorizing the three high-strung Walsh boys with horrifying stories of the Fomorii. Shannon was mowing the lawn next door in her tank top, trying to soak up as much sun as possible. I saw a quick wave in my direction from the driver’s seat of a green jeep as it roared past my ranch-style house, probably Danny on his was to one of his odd RPG meetings. My other neighbor was sitting on his steps trying to sketch some of the plants growing on either side of the path up to his house. I tied the last curtain cord to it’s fixing as Mrs. Conailey’s voice began to rise to the story’s gruesome climax. The squeaking noise of a bagpipe began somewhere further off down the street just as the youngest Walsh boy gave off a shrill scream and ran to his house, arms waving and tears streaming down his face. This is Pwyll Street, the unofficial gathering place of the ancestrally Irish.
I raised the drape on the bay window at the front of my house and leaned forward to open the windows and peer down the street. Across the street Mrs. Conailey was sitting on her porch busying herself with her favorite retirement activity; terrorizing the three high-strung Walsh boys with horrifying stories of the Fomorii. Shannon was mowing the lawn next door in her tank top, trying to soak up as much sun as possible. I saw a quick wave in my direction from the driver’s seat of a green jeep as it roared past my ranch-style house, probably Danny on his was to one of his odd RPG meetings. My other neighbor was sitting on his steps trying to sketch some of the plants growing on either side of the path up to his house. I tied the last curtain cord to it’s fixing as Mrs. Conailey’s voice began to rise to the story’s gruesome climax. The squeaking noise of a bagpipe began somewhere further off down the street just as the youngest Walsh boy gave off a shrill scream and ran to his house, arms waving and tears streaming down his face. This is Pwyll Street, the unofficial gathering place of the ancestrally Irish.