Some new writing

Brandon has completed some new work, it has been typed up by one of his friends, and I am now editing it. Here is the beginning, to show the style of Brandon's prose:

Diffused early-morning sunlight shines through three icy floor-to-ceiling windows. The table is covered with a finely knitted, but faded, white cloth—the same material hangs neatly pleated over the windows’ beige drapes. Six armchairs stand like mahogany sentinels around the table as if guarding the platter of overripe fruit that sits just right in the center. I climb up on to a sentinel and take a banana. As I peel and eat it, in my precocious child-mind, I imagine being on top of the world. I wish for a playmate.

The apartment is quiet save for the constant drone of the big round motor on top of the refrigerator and the sporadic snoring of my ninety-year-old great-grandfather.

After carefully getting down, I crawl along the floor beside the table. I open the credenza. It is filled with cups, glasses, linens, knives, forks and a lot of other things. On top of the linen I see a box of matches. I had never seen wooden matches before. There are so many of them, I knew that one would not be missed. I lit the match. I tried to be careful. I had been told repeatedly to never play with matches. The match started to go out so I picked up a candle and with the last flicker of the match’s flame I lit the candle.

Fascinated I watched the candle’s flame shimmer in the draughty room. I knew I would get in trouble if I got caught so I crawled beneath the table to hide. Hot wax dripped down onto my hand. When I screamed in pain, the burning candle fell to the floor; on its way down its flame licked the edge of the hanging tablecloth. It burst into flames.

©Brandon Astor Jones 2010.