Skip to main content

Just A Moment


A-Z Part J:
In which a splash becomes most reflective


Tap water refracts from each plate, splashes the draining board, the dry dishes not yet put away, the windowsill, Claire’s t-shirt. Lines of droplets race down the windowpane. Claire lets them run to conclusion before she wipes the cloth over. She looks out at the precise shadows playing on the ground under the ash tree. The sun, as she understands it, is a sphere of burning gas. Not poetic sounding. But she thinks of how fire burns in a grate, the hiss and twist of escaping gases, the unexpected colours, how ornate and snaky. She sweeps the floor, unsure of when the softly snoring cherub will awake. 



Comments

Sometimes after reading your posts, I don't have any other comment but an implied happy sigh. Hope that is ok.
-Heather
Lisa Southard said…
Heather, that is so much more than okay. It is a perfect compliment, thank you very much :-)
Suze said…
I feel weird intruding on this beautiful conversation with you and Heather.

I love, 'the sun, as she understands it ...'
Lisa Southard said…
Not an intrusion, Suze, a most welcome addition! I am being terrible at visiting other blogs, am lucky anyone is talking to me at all- but April is a bowled over month! I will make a mad dash at visiting when times are more sedate! :-)
Teresa Cypher said…
Moving right along. Your prose is so rich.

And duh! I just realized that you have your name up there, Lisa. I knew you from other sites, but I'm a bit leery if someone is using an alias, to use another name I might know them by.

Lisa it shall be. :-)

Popular posts from this blog

Contact Pants Conundrum

There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...

Back From The Future Blog Party

Another joint blog adventure- if you want to see who else said what the list of participants is here . The premise is this: 'You're up before dawn on a Saturday when the doorbell rings. You haven't brewed your coffee so you wonder if you imagined the sound. Plonking the half-filled carafe in the sink, you go to the front door and cautiously swing it open. No one there. As you cast your eyes to the ground, you see a parcel addressed to you ... from you. You scoop it up and haul it inside, sensing something legitimate despite the extreme oddness of the situation. Carefully, you pry it open. Inside is a shoebox -- sent from ten years in the future -- and it's filled with items you have sent yourself. What's in it?' Here's how I imagined it: Before dawn? Shadows outside, first forming. Sleep has gone, I don't know where. Coffee I can find. All the way from Machu Pichu, this fair-traded pack. Scissors are in the drawer, which ...

Hometime Foam Time

It was hot outside, cold indoors. When we were freed from the hall I opened my car thinking oven gloves might be required for driving. I was weary. I was lined up for a row of shifts- but the evenings are lighter now, and the beach was calling. I drove a wiggly route to Veryan (the road I chose was closed) and down to Carne Beach. Since I had checked the weather the wind had turned easterly, and the tide was in. There were waves smacking over a disappearing line of fine sand. Undeterred I wriggled my swimsuit on and went to play in the foam.  Neither air nor sea was particularly cold. Blue and cloud patterned sky, blue and turquoise patterned sea, flowers blooming and swooshed by the wind, and the warm brown crags of rock: to be here was to be directly connected to the source of all existence.  Home time was foam time, and vice versa. Afterwards I sat in my car, door open, eating a square of dark chocolate, watching the white flecks and trying to work out if the dark dot was a...