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July 5th, 2018

Writing Prompt

First Writing Prompt for July

Still trying to pull words like teeth out of my head. swirlsofblue posted something! Go read it. And I'm changing the next prompter now to the first person to respond! So tomorrow, swirlsofblue will be posting the next prompt!

Go write and post and read and comment!

July Prompt

Writing to the first prompt of July. Following had to be included:  canicule, ice, sugar, addicted, and Summer is about longing for summer.

Not entirely successful, but this is the first beginning, middle, ending I've written since last November. It's a start and it felt good. Now to really get back on track.





The long sweltering weekend Persephone invited Hades to stay with her, mainly in her vintage four-poster, with short forays into other parts of the apartment, but there was also that one awkward morning in her mother’s garden.

It’s one of the more enduring, he paused, dare I say ‘myths’ of, well, the Underworld.

Myth, she questioned, sucking three of the fingers of his left hand into her mouth, speaking around them. Untruth? she tried. Misunderstanding? Misapprehension. She kissed each fingertip before nuzzling her face into the hinge of his elbow. Fear? Horror?

Mmm. Any or all of those. Burning out sin, I suppose. But…I can now attest to understanding – perhaps? – a bit more. The punishment of this-

She interrupted him, heat wave.

This canicule, he said with firm conviction and when she leaned up quickly to kiss his mouth, drenching his lips with the succulence of the dripping slice of peach she now held between her teeth, he laughed. At himself. At her. At the intimacy of their two bodies lying nude on the kitchen lino, a ceiling fan whirring above them, and the black bowl beside her elbow filled with the overripe peaches she had picked the morning before. At her mother’s house. He had watched her from the back porch, running as though she were still a young summer-kissed girl, down the winding path to the small orchard at the bottom of the yard. Her mother prone on a chaise lounge, poolside, feigning sleep. His presence temporary but still unbearable. He had stopped trying to speak with her. Her ability to ignore him completely was impressive. He would give her that much. He had tried, at first, a casual, so this is summer. She glared, then narrowed her eyes. What would you know about summer? What summer is, or what it isn’t. He had to silently agree, he knew little to nothing. A traveler at odds with language and country, people and places. His bride had appeared, cleaving the hostility into two sides so that she could walk a middle ground. Summer is about longing for summer, she told them both, her tone factual rather than whimsical but the sentiment fell flat for both himself and the mother. He could clearly could see that.

An ice cube being dragged lustily over each of his left-side ribs brought him back to the present.

It isn’t hot there, she said, as though he might not remember for himself.

No.

It’s cool.

Cadaver cool. Yes.

She laughed, but not meanly, it was affectionate. Cool as though one is in constant shadow. Shade.

Hell is for the burning away of sin. The Underworld is the grave laughing in greeting to its guest.

You didn’t say that.

I know, literate queen of mine.

She stood, wobbly on passion fed legs. Another black bowl of fruit on the countertop filled with sunny lemons. I’m going to make you a glass of lemonade.

Heavy on the sugar.

She cut two of the fruit into halves and squeezed them over a tall glass, catching seeds and membrane in her palm. She scissored her fingers and let a seed or two drop through. Behind her, he rose and pulled on a pair of black sweatpants she had cut off at the knee for him the day before, he fished around in the pile of their discarded clothes and found her a tank top and skirt.

Let’s sit on the fire escape.

She nodded and dressed and followed him out after stirring the glass vigorously, the sugar dissolving into the iced water. She sat beside him, their legs dangling over the edge of the metal ledge, an alley below. A figure lay prone, face down, arms trapped beneath his body, legs haphazardly angled as though he had fallen from a height.

Are you laughing in greeting, she asked him quietly, no humour in her voice.

Is he dead then? Did he fall, jump, what?

No. Well, he has fallen. But not from a window or a roof. He’s an addict. A drug addict. Probably od-ing as we speak. We should call 911. She went back inside and he could hear her on the mobile. In the distance, the screaming of a siren.

He stood, looking down, one story, two, three. The glass was cool and damp in his hand. He drank from it. Sugary sweet citrus and pomegranate-red lipstick on the rim. He knew addiction. He understood longing. The surrendering demanded by the attainment. He drained the glass in another long pull and decided to follow the soul under.

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