writing prompt

Cold

/ wvfurandroot / 2 Comments
Photo by Joseph Pearson on Unsplash

The cold smacked him in the face and took his breath.  The polar vortex_ the weather folks called it.  When he was a kid, they called it the Siberian Express. Times change.   The ambient temperature was below zero and with windchill his bones shuddered, and his toes went numb. 

The assassin buttoned the top of his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck.  There was no hope for it.  He would have to wear gloves.  Otherwise, his fingers would get clumsy, and the cuts would not be as precise as was his wont.  His mark, the doorman, would be outside even in this weather.  It was the doorman’s job; it was the assassin’s job to kill him and leave him lying in front of the apartment as a warning to the others.

He pulled out the knife and looked into the blade, but the silvery mirror finish clouded over from his breath.  It was too cold for condensation; the knife was encased in a thin layer of ice.  He didn’t suppose that would make any difference, but still it bothered him.  He liked a clean blade; one he could see his face in.  He wiped the blade on his coat, but the metal immediately clouded over again.  No hope for it.

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Magpie

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The greatest need of our time is to clean out the enormous mass of mental and emotional rubbish that clutters our minds.  – Thomas Merton

My mind is a magpie collecting bits and pieces of shiny things from all corners of my world.  They glitter and shine in the afternoon light, no matter that they are simply debris of broken glass or twisted metal from a car wreck.  It twinkles and glows in my peripheral vision and I sweep it up and hold it dear.  My mind is full of such flotsam and jetsam. 

Photo by Marika Vinkmann on Unsplash
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Just slow down

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With my broken leg, I’ve had to slow down my movements even considering that I had long covid and was already slow.  Now, I’m at a snail’s pace.  Life is different when you move slowly.  When you must plan outings including a simple trip upstairs to get a forgotten hairbrush.  You learn to prioritize, to multitask, and to be patient. 

Photo by LOGAN WEAVER | @LGNWVR

Patience, indeed.  This has been a humbling experience.  I thought the indignities of long covid were awful.  At least with long covid, I could do for myself, it just took me a long time.   With the leg, the pain would stop me in my tracks.  “I have to sit down now.” “Can you help me?”  “I can’t.” all became part of my daily lexicon.  The “I can’t.” was the hardest lesson of all.

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Ann Louise Edison, Hula Hooper

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Ann Louise Edison was on the stage at the Whistlepunk Café with her hula hoop. Nobody had thought to limit open mic participants to those reading, reciting, singing, playing, or in some fashion making noise. 

I suppose it could be argued that Ann Louise was making noise. The rhythm of the shoop shoop of the BBs inside the hoop creates a beat when she abruptly changes direction.  Her hips circumnavigating the globe of her aura.  Ann Louise was an ecstatic performer if mostly silent. If nothing else, it was a dance.

Photo by David Le Clercq on Unsplash

Ann Marie gyrated and tossed her hair, those hips going round and round, first in one direction and then the other.  Periodically, she would shimmy the hoop from her hips to her ankles, stopping for a moment to concentrate on her knees.  Round and round the hoop went.  Halfway through her performance, someone offstage threw her another hula hoop.  Soon it was circumnavigating the world of her arms, her neck.  Ann Marie was blissed out, entranced, in union with the divine.  The rhythm of the BBs, the beat of the directional changes, the journey from her waist to her feet, her wrists to her shoulders, her shoulder to her neck.  Ann Marie was in motion while standing mostly still. She redoubled her effort and found strength in the kundalini of her spine.

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