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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
May 23, 2012
Teatime by ~anapests-and-ink Suggester Writes: "The joy of tea is rediscovered in this quaint, though undeniably emotionally moving piece. Beautiful in its circularity.
Featured by BeccaJS
Suggested by Amberlouie
Literature Text
In January, Elsa got new neighbors. She greeted them with apple cinnamon tea.
It gets so cold, here, they told her, shivering in overstuffed parkas. Snow had turned to mud in their front hall—an unavoidable side-effect of moving in winter. Elsa nodded along to their complaints and observations, silently brewing the tea in their kitchen. They were young; they had big plans. Allison and Steve, newlyweds, just starting out. They sat on the cold floor together, sipping with chapped lips. The house filled with cinnamon.
In April, Allison knocked on Elsa's door. We're pregnant! White tea in a china teacup; the taste of flower petals and champagne. The last caffeine for the next eight months. Elsa let her keep the cup.
In May, Steve bought a carseat and a crib. Elsa helped him carry it inside. Flat-packed, but heavy. Sturdy. Allison and Elsa sipped celebratory peppermint, watching Steve fumble with wood glue and a hammer. Her mother was sewing a quilt, green and yellow because they didn't want to know.
In June, it was Steve. His face was stretched, too tight in some places, sagging in others. She gave him chamomile (soothing, with a hint of earth) and sat him at the kitchen table. We lost the baby. Elsa didn't say anything. She'd known before he walked in the door.
In July, they sat on the stoop, watching children ride bikes and run through sprinklers. Elsa brought pitcher after pitcher of cold green tea. Sometimes it had lemon wedges, sometimes oranges. On the hottest days, she added mint. By August, Allison stopped coming outside.
In November, Elsa joined them for Thanksgiving. She hadn't been invited—no one had been invited—but she refused to let them be alone. She brewed blackcurrant, for warmth and sorrow. Steve chattered about nonsense for hours. Allison didn't speak.
In December, they rang the doorbell. We're moving. Elsa bought them a teapot, stuffed with apple cinnamon and white and green and blackcurrant. She left out the chamomile. Steve seemed relieved.
When they left, Elsa made African rooibos (roots and sunshine and all things lost), and drank it sitting on the kitchen floor.
It gets so cold, here, they told her, shivering in overstuffed parkas. Snow had turned to mud in their front hall—an unavoidable side-effect of moving in winter. Elsa nodded along to their complaints and observations, silently brewing the tea in their kitchen. They were young; they had big plans. Allison and Steve, newlyweds, just starting out. They sat on the cold floor together, sipping with chapped lips. The house filled with cinnamon.
In April, Allison knocked on Elsa's door. We're pregnant! White tea in a china teacup; the taste of flower petals and champagne. The last caffeine for the next eight months. Elsa let her keep the cup.
In May, Steve bought a carseat and a crib. Elsa helped him carry it inside. Flat-packed, but heavy. Sturdy. Allison and Elsa sipped celebratory peppermint, watching Steve fumble with wood glue and a hammer. Her mother was sewing a quilt, green and yellow because they didn't want to know.
In June, it was Steve. His face was stretched, too tight in some places, sagging in others. She gave him chamomile (soothing, with a hint of earth) and sat him at the kitchen table. We lost the baby. Elsa didn't say anything. She'd known before he walked in the door.
In July, they sat on the stoop, watching children ride bikes and run through sprinklers. Elsa brought pitcher after pitcher of cold green tea. Sometimes it had lemon wedges, sometimes oranges. On the hottest days, she added mint. By August, Allison stopped coming outside.
In November, Elsa joined them for Thanksgiving. She hadn't been invited—no one had been invited—but she refused to let them be alone. She brewed blackcurrant, for warmth and sorrow. Steve chattered about nonsense for hours. Allison didn't speak.
In December, they rang the doorbell. We're moving. Elsa bought them a teapot, stuffed with apple cinnamon and white and green and blackcurrant. She left out the chamomile. Steve seemed relieved.
When they left, Elsa made African rooibos (roots and sunshine and all things lost), and drank it sitting on the kitchen floor.
Literature
Pausing By The Wine
Marriage is
the frustration of reality
when the man who works the wine section
pauses in his tracks to make sure
you've found everything you "really need...are you sure?"
With a look that tells you
he finds you sort of beautiful
and you wonder how your life
might be different,
if any man other than this one
had ever looked at you like that.
Literature
Superimpose
He doesn't look like a gymnast. He's all button down shirts and frazzled grey hair framing wire spectacles, a picture perfect professorial archetype down to the very tips of his frayed shoelaces. But he was a gymnast once, or so he tells us, and I believe him because he smiles like he knows something while he's chatting before class.
It's strange to see that image superimposed over the current one the distinguished professor in pressed khaki slacks and a jacket, worn brown loafers exuding a faintly courteous manner (you can always tell them by their shoes), and a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand versus the athletic ki
Literature
Uncle Tom's Cabin
For those of us who grew up on Evansdale Street, Uncle Tom's Cabin had a double meaning: first, it was a book on every parent's bookshelf that was both a regret and a reminder, and second, it was that ugly old shack that stood (well, sort of stood) at the end of Evansdale Street, where Brookwood's residential area finally gave into the woods. The older kids would spread the legend that the shack once belonged to an old fisherman named Tom, and that we were allowed in it every day of the year except September 1st, because that was Tom's niece's birthday and we had to leave them the house so their ghosts could celebrate.
Aside from that, Uncle
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
For #theWrittenRevolution's Anniversary Contest ([link]): "Intense emotion mixed with something neutral (e.g. sensory perception/math equations)", and a bit of "A specific part of the day, over a span of time, to tell a story".
Questions:
1. Does the form work for you? If not, how would you change it?
2. Does it fit the premises for the contest?
3. Suggestions?
(for #theWrittenRevolution: [link])
edit 5/23/12: Because I am very dim, I forgot to mention that the contest is now closed (as of April 4th, actually...). I won second place for prose!
...and a DLD. And a DD. Holy crap.
edit 12/3/12: The ever amazing *disrhythmic has done a reading (here: [link]) for #Elocutionists. Amazing reading, amazing group. You should check them both out!
Questions:
1. Does the form work for you? If not, how would you change it?
2. Does it fit the premises for the contest?
3. Suggestions?
(for #theWrittenRevolution: [link])
edit 5/23/12: Because I am very dim, I forgot to mention that the contest is now closed (as of April 4th, actually...). I won second place for prose!
...and a DLD. And a DD. Holy crap.
edit 12/3/12: The ever amazing *disrhythmic has done a reading (here: [link]) for #Elocutionists. Amazing reading, amazing group. You should check them both out!
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Comments200
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Beautiful. Still makes me sad. But live goes on and we do our best to travel along with it.