Observation 1
- Scott Archer Jones
- Dec 14, 2025
- 1 min read
Every writer goes down to the DYI. For some, it’s obituaries, for some it’s the Police Report, coming home with a notebook of nuts and bolts, a hammer, a trowel. For all writers, it’s observation that provides the lumber.
There is a street that plunges down straight away from the front windows. At 10 p.m., you see a blue light flickering, possibly a candle on the sill of a bay window. Cars may (or may not) cluster the curb on the left and the right, and there are 4 giant bins for refuse and recycle. You see a fawn coat, a white hat (possibly a watch cap) halfway down the block, close to the candle. The figure is turning, turning, a little indecisive spinning in place. Walking down several steps and then back. There are figures on the steps ascending up into the building, indistinct, little to identify them. A large figure descends, certainly like a black hole of no light. It crosses the blue candle, starts down the block towards the fawn coat. Is Fawn escaping, Black pursuing? Maybe, maybe there is something raised in the air? Umbrella? Mallet? Forgotten scarf?
Pick your character. Pick your point of view. Decide if you are in close, or at the top of the street. Does your narrator add context?
Write your story. Send to me in the comments.
As a self-imposed prisoner in the darkened room out of sight from the scene, I only look out the window at night. Thinking the street would one day be void of human activity, I might venture out, test the air, search for routes away from this place. Night after night, there is always someone in view at a distance. I cannot risk being seen. Tonight, I see what I've overlooked. My solution. Steps from my window.
The manhole. Cover replaced, I shan't be found.
She hovers, then flits, from one place to another. She peers at her watch. Is she too late? Too early? She adjusts the cap covering her dark curls, then berates herself for putting it on in the first place. When she enters the house and takes it off, static electricity will make her look like a harridan. She tugs at a glove. She holds a package in her hand. Shortbread seemed like a fine idea, but perhaps it would have been better if she’d brought a bottle of wine. Shortbread wasn’t much of a gift. Or maybe she shouldn’t have brought anything. What if no one else brought a host gift? The others might think she’s just trying to show…
The street plunges down straight away from my front window casting light at odd angles. Cars cluster the curb, left and right, in the shadows. A green Impala imposing over the darkened curb reminds me of my father. I can still see the stain on the cobblestone. So long ago. Just a discoloration now. People walk merrily over it, taking no notice. Most days I don’t see it either. But, when the light is poor and my mood weak, I can feel it. On those days, it discolors everything in my view. The people still take no notice, and blindly stomp on it.
Biscotti Amoretti
15 Deciembre, 2025