escritorzuela

Around the time I was juggling both shows in 2021 I had a dream about how a monster attacked and killed Tom Scavo (yay!) and the Supernatural characters (specifically Sam, Dean, Castiel, Rowena, and Jack, because I was watching the later seasons) infiltrated the suburbs to investigate. The dream featured Sam and Dean as plague control, Dean thirsting for Bree, and Castiel and Rowena and Jack playing house as a hilarious fake married couple.

I found the idea super amusing and ended up writing a bit of it here and there, all in the style of Desperate Housewives's narration (aka Mary Alice's ghost voice over lol). It's been a while since I've touched the WIP, but I do want to finish it at some point because I love crack-y premises taken seriously. Here's the opening I wrote!

Life in Wisteria Lane, despite some of its inhabitants’ best efforts, was peppered with incessant interruptions of even the most carefully constructed routines.

Some of those interruptions were little more than inconveniences: a housewife’s wishes for a romantic night in were thwarted by the unannounced visit of her smothering mother in law; a daughter's poor choice of clothing prompted a hushed fight out of concern for the neighborhood's reaction; or a working mother’s carefully planned schedule went down the drain when her child had to stay sick at home. These women managed to juggle such annoyances according to their abilities and often emerged victorious, one or two ruffled outfits at the other side at most.

Other interruptions were plenty welcome: the visit of a half-estranged child from college, even if carrying a suitcase worth of dirty laundry; an invitation to a wine tasting from the lane's best gossip; or the spontaneous expensive dinner date proposed by a husband desperate to make up for his inattention.

But there were those that went beyond inconveniences. Interruptions that wrecked the peaceful passage of time in Fairview; that changed their simple little lives and tore apart their understanding of the world.

Like when my friend Lynette’s husband appeared disemboweled in the streets, eyes still open, a dropped bag filled with formula resting next to his bloodied fingers.