The girls were small drunken sailors who weren’t lucky enough to have grown wizened over the years. They were still soft and shiny like the wet flesh of ripe peaches, downy and blushing and giving under the lightest squeeze. Their breath smelled like sweet sticky syrup, and all of this was to their disadvantage. They would have been better off shrunken and shriveled into hard and wrinkled brown pits that were splitting and rotting at the center. Those poor girls with their soft cheeks washed in color like the dollbabies they dragged across the floor behind them.
It was the kind of house where everyone stumbled in orchestrated stupor. Somewhere a conductor hid and frantically waved batons, composing a song for each of them to nervously hum behind their tonsils. No small wonder their breathing was always labored. The girls bumped into walls when they walked down hallways, and a sneeze could send one of them flying headfirst down the stairs. Their hair got caught up in the blades of a spinning celing fan, and their bodies swung in wild circles, legs stitched down the middle into a tight seam and flapping like a seagull’s narrow wing.
Mary’s house shook itself down to the ground each night. Windows rattled in their peeling wooden frames, and tall stacks of plates caught on fire. Mary told herself stories and rocked herself to sleep at night while her father lit firecrackers in the fireplace and sent long, smoking streams of color through the brick tunnel and into the dark night. The sky lit up with color like a technicolor day. The neighborhood passed stories about Mary’s family from one mother to the next at the dairy case in Acme.
The girls watched his face like a small gaggle of young sailors watching the sky, gauging the shades of purple and red for a storm. They went under deck when the sky turned colors. The house was a garden, and roses were always in bloom across the girls’ cheeks, legs, and bottoms.
Sandy was just that. Perfectly named, gritty and gravelly. A small handful of freckles fluttered their wings across her nose, and her face bore the sign of the cross. A deep widow’s peak and a pointed chin, with flushed red knobs on her cheeks. Each afternoon, Sandy scaled the rigging, bouncing on the ropes to test her balance and climbing to the crow’s nest like she was born to scale heights.
Totally disjointed. Just brainstorming.
To consider: is fantastical writing avoidance?