My Daily Stream of Consciousness

... but not daily or necessarily true

The Quiet

Published at 6 October 2017 9:52 AM EDT in 'General'

This started out as a stream months ago, but turned into a story. Originally I intended on posting these half stories and progressing them in parts, but at the time I didn't have the nerve to put it up. I have returned to it many times. Re-read it and added more, then changed it, erased a bunch, and eventually started the cycle over. Today, however, I decided to post it. As I said it is a work in progress, and I may add more later, but for now here it is. Should you feel like sharing your thoughts, good or bad, I would be interested to read them ...

The Quiet

A quiet wind sweeps across the road, visible in the leaves and dust of the winter gone by. It is cold for this time of the year, but still warmer than yesterday and really that is all that matters. The girl sits on the curb with her feet dangling in the road. She is waiting.

Waiting for the cars to drive, or the bus to come.

Waiting for the day to end, or another to have begun.
Waiting for her friends to come, or her parents to go.

Waiting for the rain to start or maybe some snow.
Just waiting.

Waiting for a change, something, anything, that signifies things will get better. That this moment will end. The yelling will stop, and the tears will fade away.

Anything that gets them out of this never ending spiral.

The door slams behind her, but she doesn’t look back. It has happened before, too many times before. She waits for the car to rev and the wheels to squeal as they pull out of the driveway.

She waits for the silence that always follows.

The moment when her mother tries to pretend that everything is okay. She will wipe the tears from her eyes, hand over a cookie, and say “if you have finished your homework, why don’t you go watch t.v before bed”. As if that will make the memory of the yelling and screaming fade.

Clearly t.v. can fix anything.

Sometimes she wishes she could climb inside the screen and just be someone else for a while. Someone who’s parents liked her … who she liked in return. Siblings who helped instead of hindered, friends who actually existed. But she can’t and so she sits on the curb and waits for the rev …

… but nothing happens.

There is no sound at all.

Even the birds in the trees have stopped chattering. The wind has died away to nothing. There is silence. Pure, unadulterated, silence.


She turns and looks behind her at the house, the car, the door that hangs open. But everything is empty. The car, the drive, the door, everything is empty and still. Slowly she stands up and walks over to the door. She expects to see her father, mother, sister, brothers, someone. No one is there. Quietly, she steps into the house and walks towards the kitchen.


She moves into the livingroom.


The office.


Everything is neat and tidy, unlike the way it was when she walked outside 20 minutes ago.

The stillness of it all is erie. There is no sound as she moves around. The squeaky door is silent, the creaky stairs are quiet. She pulls open a door and pushes it shut, nothing. It closes as if cushioned by an unseen pillow muffling the sound. Confused and growing alarmed that she is silenced too she yells out …

“What is going on? Mom? Dad? Lizzy? Thomas? Sam?”

She is almost surprised by the sound of her own voice. While it still worked, it sounded muffled as if in a soundproof room. She briefly wonders if the whole world has gone silent, or just her house, but remains transfixed with the state of her home. Curiosity starting to penetrate through the fear and she wonders if this life of quiet would be better. If she would be happier living here alone, without the mess of her family. Can living alone be any lonelier than living in a house where everyone pretends you don’t exist. She looks around the kitchen, opens the refrigerator to find that it is filled with food, something that never happened in the loud world. Vegetables, fruit, milk, cheese, everything she could want. The cupboards are filled too. Pasta, rice, peanut butter, chocolate chips, nachos …

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Christine Morton -

A mother, a daughter, a magic bean grower,
a hoper, a lover, a dandelion blower.
A dreamer, a wisher, a photograph maker,
a writer, a hoper, a lesser road taker.

© 2016 Christine Morton Redhead Snaps