Writing Challenge: First Sentence
Sentence: He remained hidden in the abandoned house…
Edited: No, sorry, it’s a little crude in that respect, I am dyslexic and lazy 😉
Proofread: R.L. Campbell
He remained hidden in the abandoned house for over six months. At first, that sounds quite fantastic. The house was located right downtown among busy neighbors. But, when you really think about it, it’s not that astonishing. It’s not like he was a murderer smuggling kidnapped victims in and dead bodies out. Now that would be an incredible feat. Well, infamous-credible… infa-incredible… in-incredible… Never mind.
The point is, it’s not really that big of deal. It all came down to people just not paying any attention to others. It’s like everybody he passed had their heads in their phones, or whatever device was trending at the time. He could, and did many times, just walk right past one neighbor or another without the least bit of care.
So, what was he up to? Well, that’s what all the talk and specula–no, tweets and shares are all about. What was he doing in that abandoned house? He was living of course. Living rent free. Living electricity free. Living device free. And writing… It’s what writers do, and eccentric writers do the best… Well, that is to say the best writers are the eccentric writers. Something like that. Never mind.
Moving on, every day he would wake up and feed the cat and scribble his thoughts and stories in one or another notebook. His stomach would growl at him at some point and only then would he think to eat himself. Not like, take a bite out of himself or any thing like that, he wasn’t that eccentric. He would eat. Or, he wouldn’t, and in that situation, he would put his clothes on and go to the grocery store.
He always exited the abandoned house through the back door. Even though he knew the neighbors would not bother to notice him, he was careful. Or paranoid… No, he was never paranoid while leaving the abandoned house, just eccentric, or … clever? No, that’s not quite right either. He’ll think on that and get back to us.
His route took him along Main St, where all the worlds rooms opened into. Well, you know, shops and houses and public restrooms, and parks. Some days, whether he ate that day or was on his way to the grocery store, he would stop at the park. More-so, on the days the grocery store was closed, which happened from time to time…
To him, the grocery store is his personal kitchen. Well, sort of. He never went to the peanut butter isle and made himself a sandwich, or the bread isle, or the jelly isle, which, come to think of it, is all the same isle. That’s not to suggest that he took the ingredient to another isle just to make the sandwich. He didn’t do that, at least not that anybody else ever witnessed… No, he never did that!
What he did do, was go to the isle with the pre-made sandwiches, and soups, and shop to his little hearts content. The aforementioned peanut butter was by far his favorite, but sometimes it was the tuna fish. The cat liked those days the best, often smothering him with kisses. She was frisky with the tongue, and quite a delight all around.
He often took the roundabout route back to the abandoned house. That way passed right next to an outdoor theater. It was a small community thing that played the occasional favorite cartoon of yesterday. What a treat those days were. Or maybe he was there everyday? That seems more realistic. Ah, the life of the eccentric recluse… er, writer.
After that, it was back to the abandoned house for a few hours. Where was the cat? Well, sometimes she was here, sometimes she was not. Well, she was always there on tuna fish day, silly cat. Can you imagine what it would be like to write an entire novel in crayon? According to the tweets, he did it. What a feat!
Believe it or not, dinners did actually contain a well balanced meal, complete with vegetables, which he loved. Just sayin’. After a hard day of writing and wondering the town, and playing at the park, and watching cartoons. Well, even vegetable eating, eccentric, recluse, crayon using writers get very tuckered out.
Never mind the fact that once he fell asleep, the unobservant neighbor, sometimes called Mom, or Dad, or big brother, would scoop him up-big sister was too little for that-and take him out of the abandoned house, not haunted house, NOT blanket fort, past the park, not family room, past the theater, not T.V., along Main Street, not the hallway, past the grocery store, not the kitchen, to the place known only as dreamland. Where all the stories come from.