A Novel Beginning

by

Don’t know if I’ll finish it — or even middle it — but here’s an okay beginning to the novel I’ve been intending to write for a good while:

The alarm clock klaxon’d the rhythm of my find-it dance, a particularly spastic ballet thanks to the obstacle course my roommate had set up during the night. I tripped over the barbell I seldom lifted, had to crawl under a reconfigured bookshelf that dropped a precariously placed Ayn Rand tome on my head, and finally found my alarm taped to the ceiling of my walk-in closet.

When I emerged into the living room I was not exactly a phoenix burning anew –although my mouth did taste ashy from the dinner I’d overcooked the night before. Lou was on the couch watching a nature reality show — and admiring her fingernails while awaiting my review.

“Good job on the bookshelf,” I said. “How long did that take you?”

She shook her head, full of many rues. “You don’t wanna know.”

“Well, I appreciate it. By the time I got the alarm out of its duct tape I was awake enough not to try to just reset it. My continued employment thanks you.”

“You’re welcome.”

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