Creative Writing

Cold Oak

By Rebecca Shelton

      Today, is the kind of day when all I want to do is turn off the alarm and pull the covers tightly over my head. The sunlight forces its way through my dust lined shades.  It will not allow me to ignore my obligations. My body feels its fatigue.  I peel my cadaver legs from the soft white down mattress.  Two feet nervously touch the cold oak.  Arms with little strength, heave me into an upright position. My face starts to tenses up. A frown begins to grown.  Lips are now tightly pressed against each other.  Morning has officially begun.

6:10 am  There are three of them, all needing and wanting something I don't want to give.  Piercing screams bounce off the hardwood floors from the room at the end of the hall, a chainsaw cry sneaks its way through the one inch gap between the door and the floor.  To my right, Spiderman is telling his arch nemesis to prepare for a fierce battle.  These are sounds  produced at 6:10 am.

7:30 am  The smell of freshly baked biscuits restores peace to this almost always chaotic house. My face begins to relax.  All of the anger and frustration it held has been kneaded into the buttermilk dough.  A whiff of stale spaghetti reminds me that I did not wash all of the dishes from last night's dinner. Walking into the dining room another odor has unpleasantly taken over. This one is dense and  has completely replaced the sweet buttery smell of the biscuits.  My upper lip curls to prevent my nose from smelling anymore of this disagreeable aroma.  My daughter has left me a present.  After, changing Lauren I try to mask the smell with Nagchampa, my all time favorite incense.  The warm and spicy scent instantly travels to my brain to give me a sense of tranquility I don't often feel.

7:45 am   Now I can sit, if just for a moment and enjoy my breakfast.  Steam releases as I unwrap the biscuit.  Sweet creamy butter is spread thick over the fluffy round disks.  Followed by a drizzling stream of sugary, golden, honey.  Each bite crumbles in my mouth. Comfort food at its best.  This sensation is worth every calorie.

7:48 am   Noticing that all of the plates are bare I come back to reality.  Scanning heads and toes I see what needs to be addressed: hair, teeth, clothes, socks, shoes, and backpacks.  Looking out the kitchen window I see my neighbors leaves dancing along my crabgrass.  The clouds look like  frothy cappuccinos, with their fluffy, whiteness and immense size.  A woman jogs past wearing tight black leggings and a neon green windbreaker.  At the sight of this and the other data my eyes have collected, I have come to the conclusion that long sleeves and pants will be a must for today's attire.

8:15 am   There are only five minutes until my children have to be at the curb, waiting for the bus.  I start moving erratically and grabbing everything within reach.  Standing at the door I hear the pounding of six little feet but I do not see the bodies that they belong to.  I go into drill sergeant mode.  My vocal cords tense and strange sounds start to eject themselves out of my mouth.  The sounds ring through halls.  At this my children come running to me with mouths open and chests pounding.  I do a quick mental check and open the door with a mighty force.  I shove my kids over the threshold while showering them with kisses.  I wavy goodbye threw the window as my children successfully make it to the bus stop in time.

Warehouse Woes

The door is open

Rows,

       and rows,

                    upon rows,

Sharp edges meet flat faces.

Words are heard but not understood.

Light tip toes across the dark room.

Movements repeated so softly fingers become numb

The door is closed, never to reopen

           

Chernobyl

All that remains are ghosts of ghosts,

Dolls cry for their mommies, houses

No longer homes.

When all is silent and still,

Dust lies over a new existence.

Canals of propaganda,

Now dammed, for nature to drink and grow.

Trees over old fields welcome a fox to shelter.

It is forgotten, but far from dead.

Animals that should not exist, remain, thrive.

Devastation and chaos,

uninhibited life

       I was inspired to write this poem after watching a show about the wildlife that is starting to thrive in Chernobyl, it was quite amazing. http://www.history.com/shows/life-after-people

The Mullet

lies lifeless on the berber.

A trip gone bad

Or a bad trip?

The fuzz glares

and ponders every possible

move. Cupboards open half-

heartedly. Blondie, flashes

lights to break the dark code.

Art makes chaotic appearances

in the color red.