One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment. ~Hart Crane
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Sunday Timed Write!
How it works:
1. Write for 20 minutes without stopping on the prompt. 2. Post what you wrote as a comment on this post.
I said, “This is the last time. Really,” as I pulled the star-spangled quilt up over my shivering flesh.
A portrait of the Virgin Mary hung on the eggshell wall next to my narrow twin bed piled high with extra mattresses. Her face glowed, even out from under the dark head covering. She had her hands clasped, as if she were praying, “Please, keep this child from sin.”
I looked away and touched the soft folds of skin. I knew it was a sin, just like drinking, and smoking, and pocketing a pack of gum from the corner store, but sometimes I couldn't help myself.
I made no prayer when I gently slid my fingers in, let them search, and slither, and partake of the flesh. Before long, I would be willing to open my arms to seven devils and perfume myself in the unguent of my forbidden acts, just to twist my head back sideways into the feather pillow and know a flowing river that tastes of apricot, the banks of which are covered in wild lavender, and there are not clouds enough to cover the sun.
When I opened my eyes, she was looking down at me, her red lips almost pursed. I whispered, “Sorry,” and slid out from under the quilt, reaching for a sweater. As I buttoned the last pearly button, I thought I saw her wink at me.
4 comments:
Planning on this. Writing myself a reminder. :)
I said, “This is the last time. Really,” as I pulled the star-spangled quilt up over my shivering flesh.
A portrait of the Virgin Mary hung on the eggshell wall next to my narrow twin bed piled high with extra mattresses. Her face glowed, even out from under the dark head covering. She had her hands clasped, as if she were praying, “Please, keep this child from sin.”
I looked away and touched the soft folds of skin. I knew it was a sin, just like drinking, and smoking, and pocketing a pack of gum from the corner store, but sometimes I couldn't help myself.
I made no prayer when I gently slid my fingers in, let them search, and slither, and partake of the flesh. Before long, I would be willing to open my arms to seven devils and perfume myself in the unguent of my forbidden acts, just to twist my head back sideways into the feather pillow and know a flowing river that tastes of apricot, the banks of which are covered in wild lavender, and there are not clouds enough to cover the sun.
When I opened my eyes, she was looking down at me, her red lips almost pursed. I whispered, “Sorry,” and slid out from under the quilt, reaching for a sweater. As I buttoned the last pearly button, I thought I saw her wink at me.
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