Week 1 Prompt, 1 of 3

Week 1, Prompt 1

Alone in a quiet room, listening...

I close my eyes and listen to all the sounds coming to me.  There's the annoyed thump of a cat's tail near me, because I wouldn't let him sit on my lap.  Papers shifting under his weight, as he settles precariously elsewhere, sulking.  The door to the bedroom is open; I can easily hear downstairs.  The other cat must be shifting about too, because I can hear the occasional creak of floor boards, the occasional thump.  Or it's a serial killer sneaking around.  A click here, a tap there.  It's enough to fill someone with paranoia.  But it's just the cat.  I think.

Outside, the cars are shifting by, the endless whoosh of highway traffic.  I could almost imagine it's the wind, but then they pass on, and instead I'm filled with annoyance at having to live near such a noisy road.  Cars are zipping through our little side street as well, probably headed for the highway.  Whoosh!  They drive much too fast, here on our little street.  Maybe there's some comfort in hearing them, though.  It makes me feel just a little bit less alone in this big empty house.

The rumble and rush of cars can almost, but not quite, drown out the sad, desperate trilling of crickets.  They sound like a high-pitched death knell for summer.  It makes me feel tired, in anticipation of winter, but also a little bit excited.  I associate the end-of-summer crickets with lovely fall foliage and Halloween. I suppose they associate it with one last ditch effort to get the girl before you croak.

Someone's parked outside, their music annoyingly muffled and vague, but still loud.  The house thumps slightly from the bass.  I imagine this person is waiting for their date or friend, to head out somewhere downtown and enjoy the final fruits of summer.  There always seems to be a fever pitch around Labor day weekend, amongst people.  Like the crickets.  It's a last ditch chance to enjoy something before the demands of work and school.  Maybe we all die a little death at the end of summer.  We're Mainers, after all.  We know what's coming.

The tick and clack of the keyboard is soothing.  If I type fast enough, it drowns out the sounds of the serial killer downstairs, who for some reason seems to enjoy rifling through my things and taking his time coming up the stairs to kill me.  Or maybe he's too lazy and is waiting for me to come downstairs to him.  I suspect I, too, would be a rather lazy serial killer.

I can hear an airplane in the distance.  I'm not sure if it's coming in for a landing or headed out on an adventure.  It reminds me of how my boyfriend and I will look at airplanes flying high, leaving a trail of white in a perfect blue sky.  If there's more than one, I'll point to one of the white trails and say, "Which one?  Which plane would we be on?"  And we both contemplate them together.  "That one's going west," he'll say.  "We could go to Japan."  I'll mention the plane going in the opposite direction, and we'll weigh the pros and cons of taking the airplane headed to Europe instead.  We want to go on a trip together so badly.  I wonder which way this particular airplane was heading to or from.  I always feel a tug in my heart when I hear an airplane.  That's how much I miss traveling.

Crash!  The cat has decided to leave his perch, taking half the items he sat upon with him.  I hear his little paws as he dashes out the door on some unknown and suddenly exceedingly important errand.  Now the creak of my faux leather seat as I lean back, eyes squinted shut, concentrating, concentrating.  The faint yet fast thump of my heart, the blood rushing through my body.  I really do think my imagine gets the better of me too often.  I hear another creak from the living room.  Well, it doesn't matter, I need to go downstairs and get some dinner now.  Maybe we can share.  I hope that serial killer likes cornbread and chili.