Wit Fit Writer's Prompt for October 1st, 2014.
Words: Porter, portray, portico.
She didn't always use her world to the best of her ability. It was a flaw she could feel, this inability to functionally organize all of the energy and passion and strength she always had rattling in her skull. She felt like a bull in a china shop, but instead of shards of china she left the overwhelming unimportant chunks of her chaotic life in her wake. Too many pairs of shoes for the back of a car to reasonably hold. Cereal bowls with remnants of oatmeal sitting for days while her brain pursued more exciting bits of the universe.
Her front porch was proof of this. Plants, and two metal sitting chairs from the fifties, sat on the covered space. The portico was screened to keep the insects out. It should have been warm and inviting, but instead it always seemed to be her home's first line of defense against her. The shoes that made it in from her trunk but failed to make it all the way to the rack. The jacket then wet and now dry. Still sitting from an unexpected downpour. A stack of recycling that had not made it all the way out to the curb. Gardening tools that still lived where they had been set after a sweaty afternoon weeks before, crusty muddy gloves still keeping them company.
A shame, she thought. Each time she pulled up to the house. A shame. Such a charming space, her side street protecting it from the chaos of the world, perfect for sitting and drinking a cold porter beer or iced coffee. Maybe cider, to match the cooling nights and warming fall colors. But instead it only worked to portray her personal chaos to the world. To show them the nastiest shreds of her daily failures. It reminded her of walking past the neighbors trash when that mean old gray tomcat had gotten into it. Their shameful sugary treat wrappers, too many beer cans, their bathroom trash, all over the sidewalk for the whole world to see.
She wished she could leave an annotated note on the space. "Please Pardon, my excited brain has too many other things to consider..." But even to herself the explanations rang with the tense high pitch of an excuse. So instead she just walked inside quickly, keeping her eyes down like a small guilty child. Avoiding eye contact with the clutter that spoke to her clumsy bull nature.