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animal_quillsMy (rather late) response.
I'm surprised no one else responded..
Not sure if it really fits the prompt, but oh well.
Childhood memory.
I'm surprised no one else responded..
Not sure if it really fits the prompt, but oh well.
Childhood memory.
Fire.
Fire is heat. Fire is survival, a survival with no fur or coat.
Fire is desert thirst that rages in one's sticky, parched throat.
Fire is also warning, flickering teeth ready to shout "Poison!"
and it is kindled by weathered singed hands.
It is empty nothingness, intangible, but mesmerizing into diziness on a tired cold day.
It is also tamely bubbling tea infused water in a mug.
Swirling the clear warmth that. will. Burn.
--
When I was about eight, let's say. I was in the big windowed livingroom in our cosy beige-brown carpeted appartment, recovering from a stomach illness of some sort. Not so important in itself, but mother was mildly outraged at the doctor for having prescribed me a red shiny aluminium can of CocaCola. I was amazed that she had gone out to buy one at Boots, and so I sat in my futon and duvet contentedly enjoying the bubbles spitting at my nose from the can opening.
She might've taken it away, so I was quiet.
After all, I'm supposed to be allergic to such "bad for you" things, whatever that means.
Not much thought to that of course, 'cause I'd be itchy the next day anyway.
My littlest sister, Loulou was just tall enough to reach the big sturdy lunch and dinner table by the windows. The mug's on the edge of the sticky tablecloth. Next thing I know, mother is rushing to take off Lou's thick woolen (ugly purple) handmedown dress, the little one was crying and screaming, and Vicky's standing in the doorway asking what was wrong.
"Shut up and come! Quick!" My mother screamed at me in french
I hadn't eaten for three or so days. I felt like hollow birdfeathers and noodles, but okay, hurry hurry.
I am very glad mother's studied pharmacy.
A rushed cab ride later -and I remember mother was very polite and didn't scream at the taxi to go "faster faster!"- (cabby could see something was wrong.) and we were at the doctors.
I do believe we were left with our good freinds the neighbours down stairs, father came home earlier than before I was asleep, mother stayed at the hospital for a long while, and I could hardly fall asleep that night.
Uncle was outraged that they'd given her that much strong medicine, but I can't complain. She's still alive today, even though she still has the scars. Boiling hot tea, it was.
Fire is heat. Fire is survival, a survival with no fur or coat.
Fire is desert thirst that rages in one's sticky, parched throat.
Fire is also warning, flickering teeth ready to shout "Poison!"
and it is kindled by weathered singed hands.
It is empty nothingness, intangible, but mesmerizing into diziness on a tired cold day.
It is also tamely bubbling tea infused water in a mug.
Swirling the clear warmth that. will. Burn.
--
When I was about eight, let's say. I was in the big windowed livingroom in our cosy beige-brown carpeted appartment, recovering from a stomach illness of some sort. Not so important in itself, but mother was mildly outraged at the doctor for having prescribed me a red shiny aluminium can of CocaCola. I was amazed that she had gone out to buy one at Boots, and so I sat in my futon and duvet contentedly enjoying the bubbles spitting at my nose from the can opening.
She might've taken it away, so I was quiet.
After all, I'm supposed to be allergic to such "bad for you" things, whatever that means.
Not much thought to that of course, 'cause I'd be itchy the next day anyway.
My littlest sister, Loulou was just tall enough to reach the big sturdy lunch and dinner table by the windows. The mug's on the edge of the sticky tablecloth. Next thing I know, mother is rushing to take off Lou's thick woolen (ugly purple) handmedown dress, the little one was crying and screaming, and Vicky's standing in the doorway asking what was wrong.
"Shut up and come! Quick!" My mother screamed at me in french
I hadn't eaten for three or so days. I felt like hollow birdfeathers and noodles, but okay, hurry hurry.
I am very glad mother's studied pharmacy.
A rushed cab ride later -and I remember mother was very polite and didn't scream at the taxi to go "faster faster!"- (cabby could see something was wrong.) and we were at the doctors.
I do believe we were left with our good freinds the neighbours down stairs, father came home earlier than before I was asleep, mother stayed at the hospital for a long while, and I could hardly fall asleep that night.
Uncle was outraged that they'd given her that much strong medicine, but I can't complain. She's still alive today, even though she still has the scars. Boiling hot tea, it was.
