Monday May 16th, 2016

The exercise:

Write about something that is: inflated.

Had a family trip to Penticton this morning for Miles' mandatory hearing test. Yes, I mean mandatory. The woman in charge of the testing will call and call and call until a time is agreed upon to do it, which apparently has to be within six weeks of birth. I remember how persistent she was with Max.

Anyway, he passed. So hooray and thank goodness there's nothing further to deal with on that front.

We had lunch afterward at a Mexican restaurant in Penticton, which was delicious. The owners are actually a couple with a 3.5 year old son and a second son who was born three weeks ago. So... not going to get too much more similar than that, I reckon.

We got back to Osoyoos just in time to get Max to soccer class, then came home to pick strawberries to go with our leftover pancakes for dinner. Max slept most of the way home, so after dinner we went for a walk to burn off any extra energy he had.

Didn't really work. Even though we ended up running most of the way.

Though if I ever take up jogging again I think I might have a training partner on my hands.


Your sense of self-worth,
Instilled at birth
By unearned wealth,
Is simply not health-
Even though I know
That's how the rich grow,
I wish you'd have chose
A less inflated pose.
But, I suppose
You did your best
High above the rest
Of us simple folk,
Forever too broke
To become a peer;
Knowing too much fear
That will never draw near
To the lofty likes of you
And your helium crew.


Greg said...

So... the couple with the Mexican restaurant are you and Kat in an alternative life? That's kind of cool, watching how you would have done things if they'd been different :)
Well done on the hearing test, though I'm sure your love for Miles wouldn't have changed if the result had been different. And I admire your belief that you could tire Max out by taking him for a walk (jog)... I'd be prepared to put money on him wearing you out first!
I really, really, really like the last line of your poem, and almost wish you'd taken that as the prompt. There's such a lovely image there -- excellent choice. The rest of the poem is also good as it happens, and I like the rhyme scheme you've chosen even if it does bounce around a little here and there.

I scrubbed the stain on the cellar wall with a scrubbing brush. It hadn't had many bristles when I'd found it casually discarded behind the stills in the barn and it was looking more and more worn out with every day's scrubbing. The rhythmic motion helped me, putting aside other concerns and leaving me free to think about what the Master had said.
"We've had a communiqué telegrammatique," he said, leaving words in his native French for the first time. I suspected that it was indicative of the stress he was under. "The satellite has been determined to have exploded because of the miniaturisation technology. Scientists in London and Brussels have worked together and reproduced the explosion under controlled laboratory conditions. It was most definitely the tiny steam engine that released all its energy abruptly; that emergence of such pressure would rupture the casing in a manner consistent with the debris we found." I wanted to ask how many had died in reproducing that explosion but I bit down on my tongue and concentrated on the unusual word instead: I wanted to translate satellite as "wanderer" and wondered if it was right. "Four people died," he continued as though he'd read my mind. "There are... consequences... for us if we do not find or demonstrate irrevocably the steam radio device."
I, coward, stayed silent.

I scrubbed, pressing harder on the white-washed brick, forcing the stain back and away, making it vanish. The brick seemed almost to give way beneath me.

"They are talking about... inflation." he finished. He said nothing more, but his grey eyes met mine and I couldn't break his gaze – it would have been an admission of guilt. I knew what inflation was. I'd seen it done, read the description of the crime and the logic of the sentence and – and I still vomited. I tasted bile in the back of my throat as our eyes stayed locked.

I scrubbed harder. A decision I didn't want to make was happening against my will. My sympathy for the Master, my distaste for the UA... I would return the steam radio to them. I would –
The wall gave way beneath my scrubbing, brick sinking back and submerging in a thick black liquid like oil, that surged forward and engulfed my arms and washed up towards my chest. I was sure that I was falling.

Marc said...

Greg - hah, yeah, something like that :)

Thanks for the feedback on mine. I was unsure of my last line at first, but I'm glad I went with it in the end. So to speak.

Eek! I'm not sure this is going to end well for your narrator! Though, I suppose, I've had that feeling for a while now...