#11 to #20

#11:
I pull the thin blanket to my chin. It’s cold. My stomach roils for lack of food and water.

A nurse breezes in and injects something clear into a tube. She rolls my bed into the hall and I feel quiet. Peaceful. Voices are talking, laughing, but I don’t understand.

The nurse pushes me into a bright room. Then suddenly it’s dark…dark…dark.

#12:
Josue turns over on his mat just as the sun begins to rise. He gazes across the street at his home and sees a jumble of concrete, glass, toys, dishes, bodies. He thinks perhaps God has used a big spoon to mix it, like his momma mixes bread.

A tear rolls through the dust on his cheek to the earth below.

#13:
The sun looks bright and warm, but a blast of bitter air blows in through a hole in the sash. The Weatherbug® on my laptop reads ten degrees.

No walking the dog today, I sigh and the long arm on the clock clicks to 2:09 p.m. I roll my chair backward, lift my legs onto the stool and stare at a brown stain on the ceiling.

#14:
I ripped what seemed to be the two hundredth tissue out of the box and blew my nose. Again. When will this plague end, I thought. I hadn’t showered since Wednesday and felt like gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe.

Using what little strength I had, I banged out my next blog entry.

#15:
It grows in my belly, gnawing, churning, unfed. I eat and it is satisfied for a moment but before long it is burning, tugging, wonting. How I long to feel the sensation of bursting, spilling over, content.

A mountain, a swelling, a feast is ever before me, but it will never fill.

#16:
The chair in the coffeeshop was as hard and uncomfortable as a high school bleacher. A puff of steam climbed out the lid of her coffee and she began to write furiously.

Two hours passed before she realized that her lower back had a familiar ache. Satisfied with her work for the day, she turned off her laptop and packed the books into her bag. Upon standing, the pain tore through her leg like a jagged knife.

Oh, crap.

#17:
His eyes were the bluest blue, radiated by the water in them, either from age or sadness. Looking deeper, I saw what it must be like to be a father and a husband to these two women, carrying the enormous weight of death on his shoulders.

Yet in his eyes, I saw something like joy.

#18:
The morning was bright and clear as the sun reflected off the ground, lately blanketed by snow. I walked into the woods to begin my hike and dust suddenly fell from the heavens like billions of sparkling diamonds. Looking up, I gazed at the crisp blue sky and the diamonds landed on my face and lips, sharp and cold.

#19:
She sat on the floor and pulled the stack of photos and letters from the musty shoebox. Her heart fluttered as she sorted through the photos of him, drawing her finger around his face. They were so young. Still, after twenty years, she never understood why it ended. 

A letter fell to the ground. She opened the folded, thin paper and read the letter bearing another woman’s name:

My dearest Marie…

#20:
His hind legs dangled from a large body no longer strong enough to support him. So he lay on the rug, looking out the glass door at birds gathering their lunch, muskrats making their nests and the neighbor smoking on his deck across the bog.

His owner pet his head softly, just behind the ears. “Good dog.”

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© Kathan Ink 2010. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Kathan Ink, with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
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