From the street the house looked shabby and gray. It had once been painted robin's egg blue, with bright white windows and doors, but now all had faded to a drab mottled gray. Paint peeled off the siding, scraped away by the elements. Rotting window frames sported broken shutters resembling old bookshelves that had been looted and ravaged. The roof sagged under the weight of time and neglect, littered with old tree limbs from the unruly oak tree Jenson couldn't be bothered to trim. The rusted mailbox sat resolutely, if perhaps a bit slanted, to its post despite the neighborhood kid's attempts to knock it off (attempts which had included the use of firecrackers and BB guns). The covered porch was in need of a good cleaning and a fresh coat of paint, as did the dilapidated picket fence that cut out a strict perimeter from Jenson's yard and the world beyond. His house was a sore spot for all the well-to-do snobs on the neighborhood enrichment committee. They had left him note after note of varying politeness detailing how both he and the neighborhood would benefit from his house's improved curb appeal. He had told them, with varying degrees of politeness, to fuck off and leave him the hell alone. The box was an ordinary, cardboard box with the flaps at the top spread open to embrace the air above. The box was ordinary, but still Mr. Jenson remained hovering behind his screened wind-breaker door, staring out at it with squinted eyes. It must be some horrible prank one of the neighborhood brats had mustered up the courage to pull on him. Once he had opened a small paper bag filled with stale dog poop. Jenson hated dogs. They were loud, needy, and time-consuming, like kids. Like people in general, really. Jenson scowled, pushed open the screen door, and stepped out onto his covered porch.
*This was a story I liked and started but haven't gotten any farther in.
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