Prompt 46 [next is 12]
Added 2025-02-16 09:32:24 +0000 UTCDay 58 of 2025. Nothing new to report. I think I’m going to die of boredom. I would kill for a latte from that little cafe outside the B&B in Sorrento. But Sorrento is a long way away.
There was something a bit out of the ordinary this morning, though. Probably nothing, but I did notice he didn’t kiss me goodbye. That’s very much part of the daily ritual.
Oh, well. We still have sex. That part is really fun. It still feels good when he cums inside. That is still my favorite sleep.
We were given some coffee with an absurd name. Something like “Cunty Morning Brew” and it tastes better than I want it to.
I woke up later and started going through old pictures to try and see us falling in love again. Not in a sad way, it's just something that feels nice. Staying current, in some sort of way.
He remembered to put cream in my coffee this time. It's funny what he forgets.
Breakfast is eggs, bacon and toast. Old reliable. I think about several things as I eat. I remember how poor I was in my twenties. I think about sucking his dick and the little pulses his cock make in my mouth when he cums. I remember we defrosted chicken yesterday we didn't eat.
Something reminds me of my grandma and I start to cry even though she died when I was six. Then I feel stupid for crying. Then I feel happy I remembered her.
You texted me saying you forgot something and you'll be by at lunch to pick it up. I just finish washing my plate when I hear you walk in.
“Hey, what'd you forget?”
You kiss me good-morning in the afternoon.
Comments
You too make beautiful paintings with words Blu
siesta_maven
2025-02-18 01:56:31 +0000 UTC[I had no idea what to do with this one at first, and then, bam, the writing damn well started flowinnnn] Day 58. Nothing new to report. I think I’m going to die of boredom. I would kill for a latte. There was something a bit out of the ordinary this morning, though. Probably nothing, but I did notice that the sound of the wind breezing through the grass has a higher pitch today. The air never rests on the island: it's in a constant state of swirling. Not gushing, or whipping, or howling. It's never passionate, but it always has somewhere it needs to go. Today is no different. It feels warm, rich, soft against my face. It dances with my curls with the same steps it has for the past 57 days. But when I walked out to edge of the long-grass fields to drink my tea at sunrise, I noticed its song had shifted. Maybe I'm going crazy, hearing things, making up stimuli in this otherwise patterned existence. With no one to talk to and nowhere to go, observation is my hobby. I curve my neck back to squint at the sun. My gaze faces straight up: Midday. I twist to find the only tree, small only because it is a 2,997-step walk away from the 2ft-high hourglass I currently stand on. I lost count trying to figure out how much time the hourglass contains. When I focus, it feel like it empties in an hour. When I get distracted, I swear it empties in 15 minutes. If I walk from here to the tree, grab my daily lunch from the basket hanging on its branches, and walk back, the sand is usually just finishing up falling down through the hourglass. Midday means lunch time. I don't count time today. I just trek towards the large canopy of the old tree. Maybe the basket will have a latte in it today. One can only hope. Everyday is different. Breakfast—which appears in the basket next to my bed when I wake up—is always the same: green tea, an egg sandwich, and a bowl of fruit. Dinner is always soup with a glass of wine, and appears at the head of the long table next to the creek's elbow at dusk. 21 empty seats accompany me at that table, but the candles are always lit and the creek bubbles it's concerto with mastery. Lunch though, lunch is where my invisible chef has fun. I've tasted the world through my midday meal. Yesterday was "ika mata", as the piece of paper in the basket wrote out. I make it to the shade of the grand tree, pull down on the lowest branch, and peer inside the basket. Everything is blue. I knew something was off about today. I tuck the azure glass bottle of water under my arm and pick up the cobalt plate to inspect the meal. There's a smooth ball on the side and pieces of what appear to be meat, along with some vegetables—but they're all the same royal blue, blending into the plate other than the highlights and shadows made by their form. It smells earthy and grilled, slightly spiced. I poke the smooth ball and its texture reminds me of when I had fufu and fish stew 36 days ago. I put down the monochrome plate on a large root and reach back into the basket, hoping the paper will explain why my food looks the way it does. I find it, let go of the branch, and read the paper. "Ugali with nyama choma" it says; nothing else. The handwriting is different today too. Everything is all angled forward, the letterforms crammed and uneven. It feels rushed, messier than the usual swirling calligraphy. I look at the blue plate again. How incredibly odd. Is it even edible? If I close my eyes, the scent of it travelling in the dancing breeze smells rich and flavourful. I kneel next to my lunch, pick up a piece of meat and inspect it close to my face. When I tear the tender meat in half, the cobalt tones every grain in the bite. Steam wafts from the released heat. I pop it in my mouth and the delicious taste fills my senses. Goat, I think. My stomach growls for more. I test the smooth ball, what I'm guessing is the ugali. Also yummy. Despite the odd colouring, the food seems fine. Maybe it is poisoned. Maybe I don't care. Maybe 58 days is enough of a lifetime—at least to remember. Whoever I was before I woke up on this island is a past I don't know, so this place is my world. I can imagine other people: I picture vague faces of men and women when I try, images of friends laughing and families around a kitchen table. I understand what life can look like in the city or the countryside. It's like I know the context of the world as a TV show, one where I've never been a character. But there's nothing from my objective knowledge to help me understand why the food I'm gorging on is blue as a crayon. It's unappetizing to look at, so I don't. I just walk back to the hourglass, looking out to the cottoncandy clouds and turning them into dragons and rabbits. When I return, plate empty and gulping down from the water bottle, I stop in my tracks at the sight of the hourglass. It's shattered at the bottom, sand spilled out into the grass surrounding it. What happened? Did an animal crack it open? In all my observation, only winged insects and birds have accompanied me, nothing on four legs. I suppose it's possible one of the seagulls that surf the wind coming up from the cliffs on the west side could have gotten curious and pecked their beak at the glass. I bend down to touch the sand and it's so hot it burns. I snap my hand back in shock. In doing so, a shard of glass slices my palm and I feel my fist go slick with blood. Looking down, a green ooze spills out from between my fingers. I jump back, spreading my palm wide to figure out what I'm seeing. Across it, from the pointer finger to my outer wrist, is a long, shallow gash, lemon-lime green liquid swelling up from it. My blood is green. I watch it pool and drip down onto the grass. A sizzling sound tickles my ears and a gentle smoke blooms up from the ground. Again, I'm confused. Again, more blood drops and the ground sizzles. I look closer. Two globs of light green liquid spread across blades of grass, grass which appears to be corroding in spreading circles as my blood eats them away. What...the actual fuck. My heart starts drumming in my chest. Whatever blood isn't trying to escape through my palm, rushes through my ears and around my skull. I close my fist instinctively and squeeze my eyes shut, hard. It's the blue food, it's got to be. It poisoned me. It drugged me. It turned my blood to acid and is making me hallucinate. Yes, that's it. How do I make it stop? I need my blood to be red and food to be different colours and the sand to return to its hourglass prison. But I open my eyes and there's still green liquid covering my hands. That's when I notice the wind. Not a breeze, not gentle. A gusting wind is whipping at the long grass. The sky is going heavy above me, frowning in an ominous grey. This isn't normal. This is not like the other 57 days. I'm staring at the clouds, then at the tree, then to my four-post bed in the other direction, then to the man standing by the cliff edge. Wait. A man? There's a man. Another human being, a shadow of one, stands in the distance. I don't know why I try to hide, but I do, laying flat in the tall grass. He's wearing a purple suit and a black cloak which whips in the temper-rising storm. His back is towards me. Quietly, I ask myself "Who are you?" and like he can hear me, his head turns to look over his left shoulder. Then his whole body rotates to face me. His eyes are so deepset they sit in darkness from this distance. His mouth remains closed, relaxed. The wind attacks my ears and waterboards them with a deep, ravenous voice: "You ruined paradise, kitten." The reverberating thunder of it hurts. I cover my ears and my blood slides underneath my touch. My sight locks across the field to the figure. My skin is on edge, iced. Gravelly, like he's burying me with his words, his voice crawls into my pores as he declares, "Now watch it crumble." The sky and the earth and the tree and my bones crack into the boom of lightning, and I scream. It's the first—and last—sound I make since 58 days ago. And it tears my world from its seams.
Blu
2025-02-18 01:28:56 +0000 UTCDoc, I love how you write the feelings/observations/desires wrapped up in gestures/moments/memories. Life stuff. This one is so warm. Moving in its familiarity and sincerity, and so damn visual. A new favorite. Perfect 💜
caroscope
2025-02-17 06:41:13 +0000 UTC
