Passion for writing is highly required. I fly from one subject to the next with no real linking factor. I wish to write a story, no about real life, no maybe a combination of life and fiction. I am not sure where it will go or what will come out.
The hill is green with a large oak tree situated half way up on the eastern slope. The clouds are scattered formations of greys, blacks, whites, and swirl as if blown by a giant Canadian Tire home fan. To the west of the hill is a small house in disrepair. Shrubs grow high, and cuddle the house to death. The siding was a brilliant blur of colours, but has faded to black due to long lost days of joy and play. Now it sits as a reminder of the residence that once occupied it's walls, rooms, and called it home. Over the hill is an expansion. Fields, trees, shrubs, and maybe even people. Venturing over brings the sense of work. So the picture remains the same. The days are gloomy on the hill. The clouds swirl and the house remains the same.
On occassion a strange resident comes out from underneath the hill. He is a rabbit. Have you seen the new "Alice in Wonderland?" If you have than you can also see the same rabbit. This rabbit sits by the oak, and remains motionless. His facial expressions are lacking and he says absolutely nothing. This is ok. The sense is he really doesn't need to say anything. He can come on his own and go when he pleases. The comfort comes from the surround area. From the house in ruins, the clouds swirling, and the tree on the hillside. That is all that can be seen.
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