Wednesday February 8th, 2017

The exercise:

Write about something that: sparkles.

Busy at the bakery today after being closed for a week. Closed up shop at 2:30 (normally we're open until 4) but had lots of cleaning up to do so didn't end up getting home until after 4:30.

Kat took Miles back to our doctor this afternoon and apparently he's developed an ear infection since he was checked on Monday. We've started him on antibiotics (bleh) and they seem to be helping already.

Meanwhile, Max's cold/Bubonic plague seems to be getting worse again.

So, so done with all this sickness nonsense.

Mine:

It's shiny
And pretty
And glittery
And I want it.
It's mine,
Give it to me!
Can't you see?
It's mine.
So go find
One of your own
Because this one
Is mine.

Shiny
Pretty
Glittery
And mine,
All mine.
Shh!
Be quiet
Now,
Be still.
For now
You're mine
All mine.

3 Comments:

Greg said...

Ear infections sound about rights with colds, I used to get a lot of them as a toddler if my mother is to be believed. I think I eventually had my adenoids removed because of it, but I don't know if that was the real problem or not. But as you've already seen, antibiotics tend to work and work well with that kind of thing :)
It seems like you're channeling your inner Gollum today with your poem -- the only thing you're missing is "My precious!" in the second verse somewhere! I like the intensity of it, and the sense of obsession. Without that I think the first verse might come over as too repetitious, so I think you've done a great job of navigating that fine line.
[Sorry about needing two posts when it's not Ernest!]

Sparkles
The streets narrowed and the houses, all three or four limestone stories, leaned in closer and closer together. The moon wasn't up yet and the sun had been down for an hour; the evening dew was clinging heavily to everything and running in subtle trails down the walls and over the streets. No-one else was about, but that wasn't really surprising. There was only the syncopated shuffle of McArthur's feet and his slightly laboured breathing: the humidity here was up past 70% and the doctors had already told him there were things growing in his lungs.
"Conjoined twin, my ass," he muttered, and spat wetly. A lump of beige mucus splattered somewhere unseen. It was like being in a sea-cave. "It if was a bloody twin he could at least grow me another pair of lungs."
He turned a corner and the houses finally met at the upper stories, closing away the sky and stealing the last of the light. Somewhere along the street a lamp glowed softly, but was turned out even as MacArthur focused on it. He shivered: the dampness of the air seeped through clothing and leeched away body heat. His fingers were already white with lack of circulation. Nonetheless he trudged on, his shoes scraping against the cracked and worn street surface, kicking aside discarded rubbish and chunks of broken stone. The smell of stagnant water rose up and he moved into the centre of the street away from where it might pool, waiting for unwary travellers.

Greg said...

The darkness was almost absolute when he stopped. Somewhere overhead, inside one of the looming houses, there was a clang of something metal being dropped, and a curse in an Arabic-sounding language. He let the noise die away until there was silence again, waiting patiently and trying not to wheeze. After what felt like three days, but was probably only three minutes (he'd used to time things by his heart-beat but it had gotten so erratic now that any normal person would have panicked waiting for the next systolic thump to happen), there was the creak of an unoiled hinge and the groan of water-warped wood waiting for surcease, and then a moment of anticipation.
"Oh fuck," said a voice.
"Pleased to meet you too, Sparkles," said MacArthur.

Inside the house was even more cave-like than outside: the walls were unfinished stone, rough and white and glistening with the ever-present dampness. The furniture was raised off the floor on metal grills to keep it from rotting too quickly, and it was colder inside than it was out. A door, slightly ajar, led to a bedroom and heat wafted out from there, but Sparkles, seeing his glance, closed it immediately.
"What do you want?" he said.
"Appraisal," said MacArthur.
Sparkles was in his fifties, grey hair that was receding into a vampiric widow's peak and grey eyes. His skin was the colour and texture of parchment, and he was wearing a charcoal grey suit with only a hint of mildew about it. "You're a disgrace to humanity, Mac," he said, "though you've been told that so many times I don't know why I'm telling you again. There are things trying to evolve to our level that look down on you."
"Not me," said Mac, with a twist of his mouth that might have been a smile, or herniated pain. "This." From a torn pocket he pulled a little plastic bag, inside which was a gemstone. Even in the thalassic interior of this proto-cave it had a warmth and colour like the heart of the sun.
"Oh," said Sparkles softly, reverently. "A real job."

Marc said...

Greg - probably shouldn't be reading up on adenoid removal surgery right before bed. But thank you for sharing that regardless :)

And thank you for the kind words on mine.

Wonderful details in yours really bring the scene to life, especially on the streets. And Sparkles seems like an interesting addition to Mac's world of supporting characters :D