Alchera Project #36: Mornings

Prose/Option No. One - Project #36 - Other Submissions

Prose is a lovely thing when you think about it. It doesn’t have to be creative, but no matter what it always lends itself to that opportunity. The lack of an essay option has kind of gotten me down–I don’t know why; it’s not like I submitted an essay project more than once or twice. At any rate, I’m itching for some creative nonfiction. Here’s how it’s going to work: You’re going to write a story based entirely on your real life, but only one day of that life. It should be something normal, like work or school and the events that surround those obligations. If you don’t work or go to school, it should be about your stay-at-home life or whatever you normally do with your time. The creative part comes in with small embellishments here and there, exaggerations and little bits made up just for the heck of it. But generally, the story should be mostly true but written creatively, as if you’re reading a short story.

It’s up to you if you want to write about one day in your life , or combine several events from different days into one day for your story.

Mornings (2nd draft)
CLATTER!  That was the alarm clock.  CRASH!  There went the lamp.   A cat did that.

I explode out of bed, a cartoon character under whose butt sticks of dynamite were detonated, to see if the light bulb shattered.  It didn’t.

HISS!  That was Hopper reacting to Angelo or Hee Seop who routinely torment her when they want to be fed.

"Stop it!" I scold.

SPIT!  They don’t.

"That’s it.  Out.  Boys must get out."

I usher Angelo and Hee Seop out of the bedroom, then notice Basil sitting quietly on the bed, front paws tucked beneath his chest like a hen protecting her eggs.

"OK, Basil.  You can stay," I assure him as I shut the door behind the two younger boys.  He and Hopper have lived together nearly their entire lives, have grown to be two parts of a whole, his Mickey to her Minnie.

I leave the clock and lamp on the floor, Basil’s doing, I’m sure.  Until I’m up for the day, he will continue to knock them off the nightstand, his way of conveying he wants to eat.

I bounce back into bed and yank the blanket to my chin.  Basil immediately curls up against the "V" behind my knees, formed by my legs when I lay on my side.  Hopper sits on my pillow, kneading and nesting in my hair, PURR…PURR…PURR with each inhale and exhale, into my ear.

The curtains are a deep, dark red, and keep out the light.  But not the sound.

BANG!  WHAP WHAP!  BANG BANG!  Hammers pounding.  ZHRRRRRRRR!  Power tools whirring.  The guys remodeling the house next door have arrived.

Not to be outdone, Basil walks along my ribs and peers at me over my shoulder.  He lets loose a deep and dissonant YOWL that only a Siamese is capable of uttering.

"All right," I reply through clenched teeth, and sit up.

THU-THUMP!  Hopper and Basil jump off the bed and land on the wood floor, tails at full staff.

And so begin my mornings.