Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.
Stick a window in your story and it opens up infinite possibilities. (Ha ha, sorry.)
You can look out, look in, have those looking in who shouldn’t be, speculate wildly over a glimpse of those looking out, use faces either side of the glass for shock value and tapping branches to make your skin crawl. You can break them or make them bulletproof, and use them for entry or exit either voluntary or desperate. Bathroom windows are particularly popular for this given the added suspense of aperture vs body size, and a few sneaky shards of glass can produce a bloody mess and lots of DNA.
You can also play with the ‘window on the soul’ thing, but frankly, I think that’s overrated, at least these days. Windows on modern souls seem to reveal a world of torpid angst that makes me go ho hum, having had too much angst of my own to find anyone else’s inspiring and being unwilling to expose myself to the infectious nature of torpor.
But I have to admit that my biggest problem with fictional windows is the state of the glass. They’re either sparkling clean for Goodies or hideously grimy for Baddies, which puts me right back in my box and we all know which box that would be.
Not that my windows are hideously grimy – but they’re not sparkling clean, either. There are several reasons for this: time, salt air, the occasional squirt of fly spray, assaults from random bugs and the resident gecko’s habit of piddling down the screen door.
Cleaning them would mean instant upgrade to the Goodie box and a feeling of virtuous achievement that would bolster my soul no end. But it’s all a balancing act, isn’t it: virtue vs being wiped out for the day (they’re big and my elbow grease is feeling its age). One day the scales will come down on the side of virtue. But not today.