Some things are anecdotes, some stories, some poems, some nearly novellas; others are merely pieces- seeds of ideas, possibly even darlings that need murdered in order to get on with the telling of a tale- the expression of a fuller idea. The post below I'm calling a snippet. It may or may not have relevance. It may never be more than it's current incarnation of a few heavy lines, but the words came and wanted bringing out, so out it comes.
The down in the pillows congested her, but he failed to note it. Daily he glowed- a boy reborn, renewed, rambunctious, pretending that rusticity suited him, while she rejoined in placating mumbles with vacuous comments about the hue of the flowers, the briskness of the air. Nightly he took out his joy in labored middle-aged thrusts on the unresponsive flesh of her ambiguous form, she watching the sallow ceiling, wavering shadows insinuating the forms of leaves and warriors and gremlins on it’s flat water-stained surface. She could almost dismiss the heavy presence of his grunting as her eyes explored the muddy contours of the ceiling’s chimeras, thinking of an alternate life.