You can end a chapter in one of three ways.
The turn - a change of emotion that turns the preceding mood on its head - example. A chapter about the sadness of a funeral that ends in a couple of kids laughing. (This is the most common, especially among script-writing).
The hang - A piece of information that will be revealed later in the novel - example. She would find out why she had this premonition when she grew old.
The sequence - Not to be confused with the hang, but an issue that will be picked right up in the next chapter. Chapter 2 (ending) - She wasn't sure if she would pick up the flower, but she doubted it. Chapter 3 (beginning) - the rose felt like rough silt between her fingers.
Ending a chapter is key to writing a novel.
we are born poets
before we try
laughed at in school
else not exactly right
so some try
to put it right
at kitchen sink
‘neath gas station bulbs
in love and in bed
late at night
watch grow these
columns of words
something a bit off
snarls and rears
else purrs and tells
but neither is
all of us know it
before we die
I look on the years as strange observer
as simple mathematician
as equidistant when it's convenient
but most often with measure
I see the year my mother died
as one after my first child was born
I see the war in which i fought
stretch behind me longer than
when it was born from
I watch morning break in a country
I was never born in but most
of what I love traces back to this nexus
and I watch the sun set here every night
I cannot say how much I've loved it all
no numbers for that
Like all matters love and disease, it starts outside and works its way in. You awake and see fog on the windows. You kick off the covers and your toes tell you the loss, and to a degree. It hits your lungs next, and then your face, all a parliament of well-rehearsed insult. You sigh.
The sun is a traitor. It hides behind a thousand clouds in the horizon like a shy friend embarrassed about the night before. It sighs. The coffee maker is started by a hand that is your own, but that you barely recognize because your fingers are numb. There is no central heating.
The sounds start up. Exercise and random fights and car horns and middle school propaganda all compete for the apex of your attention but you pour the milk and add the sugar, waiting. The coffee percolates in bubbles which break the rest. You damn the cold above them all for that is where your head is because there is no central heating.
You clank on a standalone heater to damn the cold but the cold wins. Your heater is a matter of radiation, a strange orange glow against the failing sun’s breaking light and you wish you’d bought the one more expensive. It had the radiator stance from whence you still remember heat became but that one was too expensive and plus it had this strange additional contraption that involved water. Oh well, you say, and sip the coffee.
A thousand worries settle on your mind like those cool clouds which coat the orb that has failed all else. Didn’t you worry these last year? No, no. Your kid was just a baby; these are new and justified. The level of the whole world has changed and you’re changed by it too. Worry is all a matter of footing.
The sun marches up. You go back into that bedroom and see that it has burned the fog from the center of the windows and left only those holdouts in the corners. You check to see if you can see your breath so that you can know if it is indeed that cold, but your breath doesn’t show. Where has my warm self gone, you ask, but you already know the answer and that is that you had been climatized a million years ago, or three. The coffee cup is empty, but the girls are ensconced in slumber. They are of quiet worth and a million morrows.
You shower. You put on a tie and a sweater and your best face against the doubt and out you walk into the sunshine and the sunshine is finally doing itself justice. It absorbs into the black heat of your sweater and shoes and you rejoice in the realization that you will or might have one more chance to get up the next and do it again. Your toes are finally warm.
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