Red Writing Hood: Closer to Away

Thanks, all for the spot-on feedback last week. That's the stuff I need, so please, continue to bring it.

This week's Red Writing Hood prompt is a doozy:

For this week's prompt, grab something out of your pantry and write a short piece - using all the words in the ingredients. It can be fiction or non-fiction, poetry or prose.

I decided that Fridays will be dedicated to my emerging story about Walter and his family. You can read previous stories here and here.

For feedback this week, could you look closely at my sentence variety and specifically the flow and meter of my prose? Thanks in advance.


Closer to Away


Lydia gave her running shoes a final, satisfying tug and stepped out her door. The first moment outside, as always stung, like an icy whip. But that was the point. Isn't running about feeling something?

Running toward County Line road, she inwardly rolled her eyes. County Line Road. Could the cowpokes have less imagination? She had told Walter that if he insisted on taking that job at CU, they would live in Boulder proper. Yes, people build multi-million dollar nursing homes for dogs there, and never fail to find yet more heinous ways to adorn their feet, but at least the schools are decent.

Not like here. Dreary Erie. "We can get so much more house for so much less money," Walter had explained, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. "And we don't have to live in the PRB. The People's Republic of Boulder." He laughed, as if he had come up with this line himself, instead of reading it on one of his conservative Internet forums.

God, she hated him sometimes.

She glanced at her watch, noted her solid 8:00 minute pace. Good. Today was an easy day---a six miler, no repeats or hills. The Ft.Collins marathon was in May, and if she didn't qualify for Boston this time, then she had officially Not Worked Hard Enough.

Shuddering at the thought, she pumped her arms harder, her shoes leaving perfect tread marks in the newly-fallen snow. Her pregnant belly bounced slightly, papoosed in the belly band specifically purchased to keep Baby Girl safe. She liked the idea of her---Zoe, I guess they were calling her--resting in her womb, each pounding step lulling her into a deep, meditative sleep.

Lydia hated to run with other people--always yammering on about split times and the best post-race recovery foods. But Zoe would be a different story. She already knew to respect her mother's need for quiet and privacy.

Warmth flooded through her body as she began her last mile. As always, she was right. She had worn shorts, a long sleeved shirt, and gloves, and was now perfectly comfortable.She ticked off her day---seven hours in the ER, followed by interviews for nannies. Wincing, she remembered the final task of the day---drinks with the head of  the Poly Sci department.

Maybe she would beg off. For the baby, of course.

Rounding the corner, she was home. Her neighborhood builders, attempting to emulate the real Victorians in downtown Boulder, had painted each house in different garish colors. She and Walter lived in the most sensible of the lot---a sky blue two-story, with dark blue trim and cream embellishments. She yearned to paint it a gentle beige, just to fuck with the HOA.

As she stretched out her calf, she peeked inside the window. Walter stood in the kitchen, still wearing his ratty blue bathrobe. Squinting at a Gatorade bottle, he moved his lips softly as he read.

She shifted her weight to the other leg. Already, she could hear it. "Honey, I was reading the ingredients on this. Water, sucrose, dextrose, citric acid, natural flavor, salt, sodium citrate, monopotassium phosphate, gum arabic, glycerol ester of rosin, and yellow 5. Do you think you should be drinking this? Is it good for the baby?"

Muscles still hot and ready, she turned around, and ran away from her house, each step another moment closer to away.