𝓵𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓼𝓵𝓮𝓮𝓹𝓮𝓻 ; 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓿𝔂 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓻

Day 3: Grandma's House

Now send your character to his or her grumpy grandmother's house for a visit. Write the scene of your character's arrival.

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"Who the fuck is that?"

I stifle an easy laugh as I hear a rustling behind the old, beat-down door. A short, scrawny old lady with wildly unkempt hair peers at me through the bug screen littered with holes.

I offer a smile.

"Who the fuck are you?"

It takes a moment. Then I hear the howling, cackling belly laugh that doesn't look like it should come from a woman of her size. She throws open the door and ushers me inside.

"It's good to see you, gam," I smile as I lean in to give her a hug. I feel a sharp smack at the back of my head.

"Where the hell have you been? You're as bad as your goddamn father. You never visit. I could be dead, you know."

I rub the sore spot and give her a smart glance. "I'm glad you're not." She shakes her head at me and snorts. It's hard to believe that's her way of saying "thank you."

The walls in her trailer are yellow and peeling from how much she smokes. I watch as the 80 year old woman takes a massive rip from a bong as big as she is, and smoothly breathe it into the humid air. There's a few fans running, but the thick heat of the Ontario summer pays no mind.

There's a faint smell of cat pee and microwave meals in the air, too, but everyone in this park is so close together that the smells could be coming from anywhere. I sit down a little too hard on the couch, and gam snaps at me to be careful.

Then she packs me a bowl and we get high together.

I guess it took me a while to say anything, or maybe I had a look on my face. I don't know. I feel my grandma grip a bony hand around my shoulder.

"You're not always gonna be fuckin' miserable, kid."

I smile again. She probably sees through it - mothers and grandmothers just get that sort of thing - but she doesn't say anything else.

There's kids running around outside, enjoying the final weeks of August, and their drunk parents aren't far off, arguing about the proper way to start a grill or what time the smoke shop closes. Sometimes, in a rare second of stillness, a ricocheting gunshot can be heard as the nearby hunters fell their prey.

"Do you think the people around here are happy?" I ask her quietly. I expect another stream of profanities, but she gives me another belly laugh, quieter and deeper this time. I look at her, and expect her to say something profound. Some of that generational wisdom I've heard so much about.

Instead she replies, "how the hell should I know how other people feel?"

She cuts me off before I can give her a snappy reply. "You know what your problem is? You worry too much about others, and about all these ideals. Your heads been in the clouds since you were a boy. That can be good. But come back down and talk it out with us once and a while, yeah? Nobody's gonna help you if you can't come out and say it."

I bring my knees in a little closer to my chest. I almost expect another smack.

"Are you happy, gams?"

I see an eyeroll and a withering glance. After a moment, the edge of her lip cracks up, and I see her reaching for her unnecessarily giant water pipe again.

"I've got a dumbass grandson and all the weed I can smoke, kid. What else is there to be happy about?"

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A/N: Day 3 is LATE but here it is!!!! yay!!!!

Day 1: A Walk Down Your Street Through the Eyes of Someone Else

Over ten years now, I've watched these places grow. Humans have come and gone, built and buried and argued over trivial things, like names and borders. I'd like to say it troubles me more, but it simply can't be helped. They'll never see the world the way we do.

From up here I could pluck the trees and carry them with me, all the way down to the equator, so they wouldn't lose their leaves during the harsh, Canadian winter and like my plumage, never lose their brilliant life.

I fly south when it gets cold and damp, ignoring borders and avoiding metal monstrosities humans use to get a glimpse of how we feel. I return to melting slush and tired faces, speaking a different language than the people I've observed during the winter, yet never as beautiful as my nomadic song.

In time, the snow melts and I'm coaxed out by the smells of lilacs and rain-soaked leaves. The sounds of a not-so-distant racetrack are overlaid by the occasional moo of a bovine feeling the springtime air after months of solitude. It's a strange little town, to be sure. But I've come to see it as my own.

It's easy to get lost in thought staring towards the river they call Grand. With it's dirt and grime, grand isn't the word I would use for it, necessarily. But perched up on this hill, overlooking farms and distant forests and the morning frost fades, it certainly gives a grand feeling.

The leaves reach a deep green as the temperature swells in the summer, and the sounds of motorcycles racing to the Great Lake Erie nearby soon join the chorus of racecars and cows. The air is thick with humidity and pollen now, but the forests are lush and silent. Here in the city of pine and oak is where I find my refuge until it's time to watch the sun be swallowed by the ebbing water.

As it turns to autumn, I know my time here grows short. It doesn't take long for the temperature to plummet and the leaves to turn, trying as they might to match my golden feathers. Frost lines the riverside grass, and the motors and cattle fall silent. I look longingly down the river, wondering if perhaps next year I could fly all the way to it's source and back again.

When the first snows fall, I'm already long forgotten, a simple curiosity until I return next spring. The long flight south doesn't seem to stretch so far as I observe many towns and many rivers and I find myself wondering if they, too, are just as grand.

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A/N: Wooooh! So this was totally late since I've been really sick with medical-related stuff this weekend and also reading week just finished and I did..... almost none of the work I was supposed to. But that's okay! This is November Writing Challenge Day 1! Enjoy!!!