Gingerbread23
Grain - wheat - Amber waves of agricultural oceans across acres and swaths of the American heartland invoke a feeling of pride, industriousness, and somehow wholesome nobility out of an ancient crop familiar to the calloused fingers of civilizations since recorded (pre-celiac hypocondriac laden) time. Indeed the irony of the soviet hammer and sicle emblum - glorifying the nobility of domestic farmers yet .....
Ringing that's all I could hear the night my world fell apart. A high-pitched, monotone whine drowning out the cacophony that preceded the fall. The dog barking protectively at my side, the roar of the crowd at Superbowl blaring though the surround sound speakers; it was all gone. Had I hit my head? My eyes stung and the world seemed to move in slow motion as blobs of light and shadow swirled together in my field of vision. I was grateful for the deafness. It shielded me from the profanities and insults that punctuated his aggression.
Hearing and sight no longer reliable, I gingerly reached out to my other senses and smelled the yeasty fermentation of cheap beer, stale cigarettes and burning wood. A metallic taste blanketed my tongue and my face felt cold and wet. I wiped the unknown irritant from my eyes with my shirt and focused on the fireplace, flames now more distinguishable. Moving my hand to the floor and flattening my hands to the carpet beneath me, I caught a whiff of the same cheap beer now clinging to my sleeve. In a push-up-like position, I raised my torso off of the floor and my right arm buckled beneath me shooting pain through my arm like a jolt of electricity. Gasping in pain I shifted the entirety of my weight to the left, providing some relief as I completed the motion. Now seated, I tepidly examined the extent of my injuries and attempted to stand. It wasn't only my right arm, now unconsciously and protectively cradled in my left, but the whole of the right side of my body: face, shoulder, buttocks, knee,ankle; ached from the fall leaving me off balance and disoriented. I narrowed my eyes and the dark, thick figure of my attacker came into focus.
The flight instinct, like the ringing in my ears evaporated overtaken by the hot waves of anger now surging through my shaking limbs, numbing the pain and restoring my equilibrium. Only its counterpart remained. The imperative to fight now thudded against my chest in time with my rapidly increasing heart rate. Transforming disbelief into certainty; fear into rage.
She stood on the sidewalk unable to believe what just happened. The numbness of shock flowed over her body like a wave. She barely noticed when the rain started, or that people were rushing past to seek shelter - their fight or flight response evidently in tact. They still cared - whether their clothes or their bodies were wet, where they were going, who they saw. But there she stood, unable to feel. She was nothing - she didn't matter. She was useless - to be casually dismissed and discarded. A human piece of lint - easy to cast aside.
the plane rumbled as it sprang into life, charging down the runway lifting its massive bulk into the air. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and looked out the window and the blanket of foliage below. A green sea carved only by thin, undulating, tangles of red African roads below that continued, she knew, to the see. She barely noticed the tear escaping from her eyes, streaking down her face below her Jackie O black sunglasses. She pulled down on the window shade, blocking out the western setting sun and let her head rest against the back of her chair. "Onward" she thought. "Onward."
Pink and fat it sat there in the cold terrarium of the deli counter at giant. Smoked, Norwegian salmon. Her thoughts wandered to thoughts of icy Fjords, mountains, fur lined coats and viking ships. A wilderness and civilization born out of cold and struggle and a culture foreign and ancient. A smile played on her lips. "I'll take 2 lbs. please", she asked the butcher.
Blue? Indigo? the painter squinted, the colors blurring in front of his eyes. Looking at the palette of the sunset reflected in the slow, rippling movement of the Seine.
The rich, full strength of the bourbon hit her tongue and the taste of unnaturally sweet, red juice from the jar of Marichino cherries lingered on her lips long enough for him to taste as his mouth met hers. The taste of the Manhattan cocktail they had shared now punctuated the softness of her mouth. The sweetest, most intoxicating candy he could ever imagine.
She collected things. Things no one wanted. Incomplete decks of cards, buttons, matchbooks, seashells...hmm - she needed more of those. And barbie dolls. Oh she LOVED her barbie dolls. Her collection was pristine. Two hundred and seventy three boxes lined the walls of her apartment with perfect shelves made just for them. All unopened, staring at her through their thin, plastic cellophane windows, providing them a barrier to the world. Keeping them pure. Pure and clean. Which Amber thought she would ever be again.
The marble structure, appeared on the skyline - ancient and tall. From this distance it was impossible to see the superficial cracks in its foundation nor detect the black moldy film that had began to encroach at its base.
Sure. "Follow the instructions" she sobbed sitting on the floor of her once clean apartment. "Follow the bloody Instructions" - her tears were now blurring the ink, making that thin paper on which those INSTRUCTIONS were written translucent. Making the Japanese characters on the back visible through the just as incomprehensible English translation which which she'd be struggling for the past 45 minutes.
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writing since 2016 · 13 entries · 13 days shown up
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