Occassional Guest Pirate and one of the coolest ladies I know, Santa O’Byrne returns to the ship to bring us a little group participation.

There’s a house I pass on the way to the bank.  It’s a square red brick house set back from the road a bit.  It’s façade as non-sequential as its shape.  Mirror image windows set on either side of a plain black door while above it a porch door opens onto nothingness.

Every day, like clockwork, a woman walks the perimeter of the yard to the left side of the house.  Dressed in grey sweats that inexplicably blend into the background, she sets her pace along imaginary lines, her face hidden beneath the bill of a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes.

Then she disappears as quickly as she appears.  Is it because the weather turns warmer, negating the need for such heavy armor?  No sooner has my writer’s mind set about continuing the story she’s started in my head, the building begins.  Truckloads of wood planks follow the delivery of tall metal posts set ten feet apart along the same perimeter she walked.  Do the tread marks from her sneakers create a plum line for the builder?

More questions spring to mind.  Deeper mysteries yet to unfold.

The planks went up next, taller than any man, rivaling the height of the house next to it.  Curtains in the windows lifted on the left side seeming to chance a sidelong glance at what was being done right in its own backyard.

Does your writer’s mind work this way?  Do you see the world around you unfold like a story waiting to be told?  Why don’t you tell me how this story unfolds for you and I’ll tell you how it continues to unfold for me.