Sometimes, I let a story idea percolate for so long it becomes unrecognizable from the original impetus, and morphs into something I didn’t intend. I am in the process of re-writing and heavily editing a story that I didn’t initially understand, but unfolded itself into a recognizable stories over the past few weeks, mostly when I’ve been driving or walking with Jude and have ample time to make up stories in my head or think about life.
Three days after the brackish flood water had receded, fragrant with rot and manure swept away from burgenoning heaps, you’d not have known Coon Creek had slipped its banks and wreaked havoc upon the town of Misery Bay. Miriam Hayes was out in her expired husband’s hipwaders reapplying puce paint to her storm battered shutters even as the creek was shrinking back to its typical meek and mild self. Jack Dodger was seen working up the nerve to walk up the veranda steps to Mrs.Jack Dodger after having rowed off into the flood waters, perched on an inflatable unicorn belonging to his daughter, with misplaced notions of heroism rattling around beneath the fishing hat he wore perpetually, to Mrs.Marie Jack Dodger’s dismay. The town sign, proclaiming in its shaky hand lettering, “Misery Bay, Population 384” had blown off somewhere downstream toward Alma, but the number needed to be adjusted to 382 to reflect recent changes in the community. On his way to school, Jefferson Bran slowed his bicycle to a halt on the pitted, bare road and wiped the incessant tears from his eyes. Then, he too composed himself in the events following the flood, put his feet to the pedals and absently thought he may need a new bicycle soon, as this one was becoming too small.