I have a long way to go with this, but I had to get something written about Annie today. This is a slice of a character that goes along with a story I’m writing with another character, Rose Jackson. Meet Rose here and here.
At the kitchen table under the piles of unopened mail and wrinkled dishcloths, Annie spotted her scrapbook. As she mustered up the energy and opened it, she touched each page and remembered. There was her late husband, prick of a man, fishing in the Old Yellow river up near the foothills. “Bastard. Why I keep you in here, no one knows,” she mumbled as the page quivered in her hand. Next was her mother, fake smiling at the camera, at her last birthday celebration with the family seventeen years ago. Jake. Her eldest, whom she hadn’t seen for years, leaning on his brand new fire red Corvette-the one that caused her to go nearly bankrupt. He looked eerily like his father, with that dark look in his eyes and the nasty scar on his left cheek from jumping out of the car when he was seven. Finally, she turned to the last section of the rapidly fading book of memories. This was Rose’s section. She turned to a new page, took a charcoal pencil from her bathrobe pocket, and began to sketch what she couldn’t erase from her mind: Rose lying face down on the sidewalk earlier this morning while the birds watched over her from above.