A Muse’s Whisper

The fish-tank was green, while dirty dishes piled in the sink where the cereal had spilled across the kitchen bench.

The toilet roll holder was naked in the bathroom. Yet within reach, the pyramid of pristine rolls stood still in their ripped packaging. A few runaway paper-rolls lay in the barren linen cupboard beside the empty clothes basket, overshadowed by a moving mountain of laundry.

The lounge room had become a complex tent city erected from the good linen kept purely for guests. Children’s voices and the stereo fought with the TV to be heard.

And the front lawn waved at the neighbours well above the fence line.

In the backyard, glitter floated in the air, while the snip-snip of scissors created confetti from shredded materials. Hammers knocked. Chisels tapped. The scraping sandpaper stirred sawdust skywards as paint dropped like rain. The consistent tink-tink of tools masked cuss-words that would even make the toughest of truck drivers blush.

And then there was silence…

Tools down and the safety goggles are pushed back into her limp sawdust-shampooed hair. Removing the face-mask her clown-mouth is outlined by the grit-and-grime. Tearing off tattered gardening gloves, exposing her chipped fingernails, dust covers her paint-stained clothes.  They sport new holes carved from timber and protruding screws.

Stepping back with narrowed eyes that twinkle in the dying sunlight, her lips curl into the start of a smile, ignoring every aching muscle in her body.

Because….

It is done!

She couldn’t wait for it to dry before placing it below the bent birdhouse that hovered near the leaky water-fountain. It would blend well with the leaning pallet-fence, propped-up by the crumbling mosaic totem poles made from old teacups. So perfect for that crocheted hammock in the corner, shaded by the woven net of grass she let grow!

Only to do it all over again soon…

(300 words)

 

This excerpt was originally posted HERE:  https://melarowe.com/are-creatives-craft-cursed/

Life’s Detour

It was a gravity crashing,

 star crushing,

 kind of morning

as a kaleidoscope of spinning planets

with unlimited, unanswered questions,

headed for catastrophe

stopped

for the prettiest snow flower of a day-dream.

He wanted to sit beside her

to carry her candle

shielded in a cracked glass

against the edge of the sun’s stolen storm of time.

Yet, silently he stood at the airport,

and stared

 at the prettiest hangman’s rope he ever saw

wishing he held a sign that read:

‘Pick me as your next life detour’.

 

A regret he never did forget.