Early afternoon in my favourite café. Slowly sipping my coffee. Four hours of lifetime ahead of me where I can do want I want and do what I should. I head for the library, a quiet place, a good place to fight with words and fight with their meaning. Nearly four hours of uninterrupted meditation on text and syntax. Time is up much too soon. I have to go back to my ailing mother, to comfort her and help her to endure just a little bit longer. So much to do, so little time.
Tag: #fivestrayminutes
Scouring
I watered the garden while thinking about this, then came inside and wrote it. So, not five minutes’ worth, exactly.
Cath was at the sink, cleaning the pot. Her shoulders were hunched, Every now and then she dabbed the steel wool in the plastic container full of scouring powder. Scrubbing, scrubbing. God only knows why. The pot wasn’t burnt or anything. No. It has to be perfect, as always, shining as if it were new.
The old stainless steel pressure cooker was used for almost everything. Now she was scrubbing the outside. And now the lid.
She ignored Andrea who had walked into the kitchen, tossed her bag on the kitchen table, and said “Hi, honey, I’m home”, by way of humour. Cath seemed intent on not turning around.
Then Andrea saw. She was crying. Jaw clenched, red cheeked. Tears streaming down her cheeks. That’s when she sniffed. Andrea came closer, and put her hand on her shoulder. Cath whipped around, eyes huge and angry, “What?!”
“I was about to ask you the same thing”, said Andrea.
“It’s Len. He’s dead. Bert told me when I saw him at the salon today.”
©2019 Allison Wright
[192 words. Writing: 7 minutes; editing 3 minutes]
Unbidden
Unbidden, in a constant surge, that’s how it comes. What it this “it”? It is the language all around us that begs transformation. It begs to be translated, juggled with, driven down etymological paths to dead-ends where knowledge fails.
No matter, for it backtracks and springs up anew, and slashes a track through overgrowth, climbs rocks, and swings from tree branches. I did once scream inside my head to the panoramic view of my village on the hillside that I am a translator. The village was silent. I wept.
I was smoking a cheap rolled cigarette, leaning against the wall of a laundry for that monologue. I had been elbow-deep in bleach perfecting the art of stain removal from sheets all morning. A daily penance for unknown sins. Clumsy swollen fingers not good for typing. But in those free ten minutes, my head was flooded with fresh, clean words that come – that always come, unbidden.
©2019 Allison Wright
[158 words]
Anachronism
The living room window overlooks The City. A church looms over narrow cobblestone alleys lined with quaint frame houses. Ivy and roses wind around colorful doorways reminiscent of Tolkien’s Shire. No trees. They didn’t have room for them in the Middle Ages. This part of the town is slowly sinking; you can see the cracks in the walls.
Then: a parking lot. A nightclub. Stores. People on bikes. The occasional horse-drawn carriage chauffeuring flocks of tourists to the sets of the soap opera that is being filmed here. The adjacent street has trees. Workers dutifully cut them into shape every spring. The sound of sports car engines revving. Honking. Busses. Sirens. Someone is smoking under the window.
The church bells are tolling, and a loud ping proclaims that I’ve got mail.
[132 words]
(c) Anett Enzmann 2019
Enough
I had an errand in the village and then the perfect espresso coffee. I drank in the fine blue sky. All around, promises lapped at my confidence saying yes, today would indeed be productive.
The coffee was so good, I wanted more.
Always wanting more; just a little bit longer. Wait! Stay with me!
But more would have been too much, and perhaps it would have taken away the blue sky lining my soul.
I scraped the sugar from the bottom of the cup. Life is sweet like that.
©2019 Allison Wright
[92 words]
Hornets’ Nest
Hornets. There are about 15 of them, buzzing fussily in and out of the hole in the wall they have recently chosen as their dwelling. Unfazed by the voices and the life behind the crumbling bricks they simply go about their day. Every day.
I was scared of them, at first. A strange, primal fear of one of them unsuspectingly exploring its environment, getting trapped in my room. What is this place? What are all these smells and things? Who are these furry creatures staring at it with their preying eyes? It buzzes around, disoriented, panicking, lashing out.
Poor thing.
I’d better keep my windows closed.
[111 words]
(c) Anett Enzmann 2019
In-tray
(An attempt to describe an object.)
The handcrafted pine tray is larger than the ones purchased in the office supplies store. It is three inches deep, and easily takes the A3 sketch pads and folders piled in it, and flowing over its edges in ways that seemingly defy gravity.
A sad shaft of light reveals a thin film of dust on every edge of paper jutting out. Why would one keep an envelope, if not to protect whatever is inside? What is it, I wonder? And why did I keep it?
I have a red folder sitting right on top of a pink one. These are the only elements of colour standing out from the manilla and white. The colour scheme is scary. I shall have to apply some interior décor principles to that mess soon.
©2019 Allison Wright
[138 words]
Walking, Talking
I went walking with my good friend this morning. First coffee, then wandering down the the beachfront. She talks and I listen all the while. I think she finds it easier to talk when we don’t have eye contact. She has recently come through the chemo fire.
Fortunately, her husband is tremendously supportive. He is also quite alone in this space. He walks ahead of us with my husband, also talking and divulging many things to his older friend. It is therapeutic for both wife and husband and we are good listeners, my husband and I. We listen and we hear.
The subtext is what matters sometimes. Neither of us are giving advice. Well maybe a bit of advice.
[119 words]
Entropic wardrobe
Yes, the entropic wardrobe is a closed system and subject to randomness and disorder. Chaos, even. It is a closed system because, despite disorder within, care is usually taken to ensure that the door closes.
Of course the jolly thing is too small. That is why there exists what like-minded friends have dubbed the “drobe”, loosely defined as a chair, or other piece of furniture, placed in a bedroom to bear the weight of any clothes that for any reason do not get moved either to the laundry basket or, when clean, back into the wardrobe itself.
Sometimes, confusion occurs with drobes, for the manager of the drobe cannot remember what direction the clothes on it are supposed to be travelling. This turmoil is responsible for many an item being needlessly washed twice. Rather that, than place already worn clothes back in the wardrobe.
As to the wardrobe itself, the chief cause of entropy arises when visitors are expected and the entire amorphous pile on the drobe has to be unceremoniously dumped inside the wardrobe, whose door is firmly shut.
All this to give the impression of order, you understand.
©2019 Allison Wright
[193 words]
Summers
Summer is when you have a shower and do not towel dry. Instead you wash by hand the clothes you had previously stepped out of, all the while noticing in the mirror the new wrinkles that etched character last winter into your middle age.
They glory in the brightness streaming through the window. You don’t care so much, as wonder who this new person is – or will be next year. At least you can still touch your toes. That’s something.
©2019 Allison Wright–
[80 words]
five stray minutes 