Blowing Steam

Today's muse:

As I mentioned, I attended a Sanctuary Retreat this past Saturday.

One of the prompts was to write down three household items, then write a short piece using one of the items. One of my words was kettle.

* * *

Blowing Steam

The kitchen is dim; not because it’s late—or early—but because the curtains are drawn in defence against the summer day.

My throbbing head rests in trembling hands, hair drapes down in a protective curtain. The kettle can’t boil fast enough, though I’m not sure I can even stomach tea.

I concentrate on warding off the resurgence of food and booze. Oh, right. Booze. I mentally tap my fingers against my skull (actually doing so would have the effect of a seven-point earthquake), tick off last night’s liquid buffet. The counting marathon is interrupted by the scream of boiling water.

Jesus! I really need to get a new kettle. One that isn’t so loud.

A deep breath gives me false hope of holding down the bile and I contemplate getting up to quiet the screeching monster on the stove.

Then there is silence, and I am at once tearful with gratitude. I turn to look across the kitchen, careful not to rattle my fragile brain.

Wearing nothing but snug, white briefs, blue eyes smile at me and lips curve in promise.

“Milk and sugar?” he asks.

I smile. Nod with care. And refrain from asking the obvious question.

“Who are you?”

Out of Here

Today's muse:

As I mentioned, I attended a Sanctuary Retreat yesterday.

One of the most challenging prompts was poetry. Poetry is not my strong point, though I love it. We were given a poem and told to write a response to each line individually. Once our responses were written, we were to remove the given lines and make a poem with the rest.

* * *

Out of Here

Lights flash by in strobe effect;
a futile race with road signs and wooden median posts.

She rockets through the night,
follows the vee of highway,
swerving further and further from centre.

A simple twist will bring her back on track,
but a jerk to the left will get her out of here.

Dust to Dust

Today's muse:

I attended a Sanctuary Retreat today. It was inspiring and validating. The morning was devoted to writing short pieces using prompts. We broke for a delicious homemade lunch, then the afternoon was spent in blissful silence (except for the click of keyboards and the scratch of pens).

One of the prompts was to write down three smells you love and three smells you find less pleasant. Choose one of the words and write a short piece.

One of my ‘love’ words was sawdust.

* * *

Dust to Dust

Dust lingers on my tongue, catches in my throat. It’s like breathing under water; my lungs unable to fully expand. Yet the scent begs me to inhale, close my eyes and tip back my head.

The sharp hiss of the bench saw adds more flakes to my pile of heaven. I want to wade through the fine shavings, toss them in the air like down, laugh as my father twirls me around. I want to brush the sawdust from his thinning hair, press my cheek against his.

Solace is found at the lumber yard, where his memory lives among piles of cut timber.