Writing Date IV

Writing Date IV

“ … the smell of …”

The vapors and steam of garlic and onions, immune to the oily pull of the overhead fan, roam freely around the simulated rose scent of the freshly-washed, still-damp laundry drying on the other side of the space.

Putrid, the refrigerator farts upon opening, sour, acidic degradation of something once living now succumbing slowly to its own death. A metamorphosis from pungent to vile.

The subtle burnt of toast and the sizzling, savory aroma of cheese becoming crisp.

A delightful transportation to summer times filled with grilling, warm evenings emanating smoke, reminders of the comforts of simplicity.

A thick steam of rice and melting plastic.

The cat smells like a warm comforter but only when you stick your nose in its fur.

Astringent, the smell of the book is the same as that of the wide, clear packing tape she uses to tape up the lid flaps of cardboard boxes to make them taller.

 

“ … the taste of …”

The saltine backs of plastic chairs.

The black licorice stains of the hallway carpets.

The white meaty chicken banality of girls’ attempts to be cool and fit in.

The burning sweat of fear induced not unlike biting into the one too-spicy jalapeno at the bottom of the jar.

Salty like a pickle after volleyball practice.

Overwhelmed by the honey-soaked ooze of unrequited love.

People stare at the outcast like a pig roasting, on a spit, mouths watering, over a bonfire.

Students pop excitedly like a fresh batch of popcorn sprinkled with sugar, encased in a kettle at the mountain fair.

Like biting into a perfect, oven-fresh slice of her favorite pizza, she aced the test.

Various groupings of various status crowd and cheer from the balconies flanking the court like soft, warm hot dog buns.

 

“ … the feel of …”

Small, the size of a mini version of a typical brand of candy bar, it fits perfectly in her hand. The thing is rough compared to the metal bits, a tiny circular insignia of the car’s make, the tiny spherical button, the long, low rod that connects the thing to other things. Barely distinguishable, a few lines rise off the raised metal circle. She flips the thing over in her hand. The smooth, silky rubber, separated by divots that divide into three specific buttons compress under the pressure of a thumb. A scant depression as she presses the lowest section. Her pinky feels the cold metal ring where the thing attaches to other like things. She slides her thumb from the bottom button up through the top where she reaches a slippery, cold, metal, mechanical release. Pressure applied, a dull metal blade snaps free from the side of the thing. She runs her thumb and forefinger over both sides of the blade. Sharp, the recessed engravings cut through the blade on both sides like a river through a ravine as it wiggles and waves in an attempt to reveal less of itself. Palm down she grasps the handle, the hand of an old friend. She pulls. The weight of the heavy door needs a little convincing. She sits in the seat the door made available and runs her hands around the dimpled, bumpy steering wheel that is simultaneously stiff and impressionable. Happy, she presses the palm of her right hand into the steering wheel’s center and feels the cool metal plate of the car’s insignia. Sliding the dull metal blade into the coin slot nested in the hard albeit velvety dash, the engraved shape bumps and meanders easily through the hole. The gentle rumbling massage of the engine kicks on.

 

“ … the sound of …”

High-pitched, the cat asks aloud into the great beyond as if wondering where its owners have run off to. The soothing reassurance that he is not alone; the softest patter of kitty paws press down individual strands of bending carpet. The rattle of wood-framed, antique glass windows. A siren blares, horns honk, leaving all else inaudible. Slowly, echoing, the siren sound dissipates; life returns to the room. The chiming song of the XBOX. The click of controller buttons, plastic on plastic. The tapping rhythm of fingers pressing buttons decorated in alphabet letters, symbols, numbers and direct commands. Scratches of small things being moved around some other small thing made of metal. The cat expresses its desire to not be alone. Footfalls on wooden floors that rarely creak but squeak make its way to the lonely cat. The cat purrs a loud, roar-like melody of gratitude. Another window rattles. The thunderous engine of a passing bus rumbles the outer room of the house. The skittle sound of tiny rubble falls from the upper portion of wall onto the floor. A whizzing zoom inhales the surrounding air and other featherweight objects within its vicinity. Bubbles bounce, a forceful inhalation of air through water as the short zip of a lighter puffs with a small pop into flames. A peaceful exhalation of contentment and ease.