The exercise:
Write about: drowning.
Had a lovely Father's Day, spending the vast majority of it hanging out with Max. Kat was doing some weeding in the garden this morning so me and the young sir went into town to hang at our favorite coffee shop and pick up some hamburger buns for dinner.
This evening Kat's parents joined us for barbequed burgers, salad, and sauted garlic scapes. Oh, and an amazing dessert that Kat made for us.
Oh, and I was also served breakfast in bed.
Yeah, good day.
Mine:
The glass waiting before me is smeared with sweat and oil on the outside, full of numbing liquid on the inside. I sit and observe it in silence, hands clasped loosely together on my lap, murky thoughts running sloppy laps in my head.
I am trying to make a decision but it is a long time in coming.
There is a steady hum of noise surrounding me, with regular bursts of laughter and raised voices. I pay them no heed. The air is an unpleasant mix of cigarettes and alcohol and unwashed humanity. I notice it briefly, now and then.
An image flashes through my brain and without hesitation I reach out and grab the glass. Its contents are down my throat in a blink, then I place the empty vessel back on the bar.
"Another," I tell the bartender. It is an easy decision this time, for it seems that I can still remember her face.
2 comments:
That does sound like a pleasant day! I think I've only ever had breakfast in bed when I was in hospital, but this is probably because I don't think other people can cook as well as I can... and the dogs would only want to share my breakfast too....
Great atmosphere in your story today, and I like that the title isn't explicitly referenced too. The first and third paragraphs are probably my favourites for the way they build the scene and bring it to life.
Drowning
The glass waiting before me is smeared with numbing liquid on the outside, full of sweat and oil on the inside. Across the table, its wood blackened by fire and scarred by knives, sits Yin Zhengin, Ambassador from Inukis. There is a thin smile playing on her cochineal lips but it never quite reaches her eyes. And her eyes are like exotic insects, her eyelashes seem to wave of their own accord and her mascara is a fractal that threatens to suck the viewer in.
"You're in over your head," she says, and her voice is like paper tearing. She extends a delicate hand, the skin the brown of mediterranean sand and the bones are long and gracile as a deer's leg, and pushes the glass towards me.
"I visited Inukis once," I say. Her face is impassive, but she watches me nevertheless. "They call it the city of the soulless. I remember the windows most of all."
They were startling windows; grey and reflective, they trapped the light and only released it slowly. If you stood and looked at your reflection for a minute it would be moving out of sync with you. You could almost believe that the windows stole your soul.
"Once was not enough." That she's spoken is a small victory for me, but it's probably not enough. The glass remains in front of me, waiting for me to drink.
Greg - ah yes, dogs could make that a bit awkward :)
Huh, somehow it never occurred to me that you'd twist my opening line.
Intriguing scene here, and I'm most definitely curious about Inukis and its windows.
Post a Comment