LIT1 Nikkie Yeh: Milk, Button, Trumpet
I sit in the kitchen, lips still feeling the buzz as I rest my trumpet on my knee. I feel quiet, but not quite calm. My eyes find the glass of cold milk on the table beside me. As I drink it down, I can see the old clock on the wall through the bottom, veils of whiteness revealing the hour.
You're not home yet, the trumpet's echoes sound from the white painted walls. I expected you an hour ago.
Will you come home to me?
I wipe my mouth on the folded red cloth napkin. I can hear the clock through the fading echoes of the "Saint James Infirmary" blues. The counterpoint of swingtime versus clocktime burrows into my reverie and I raise my eyes to the kitchen window, intermittently bursting with blown snowflakes and views of the front walk and the mailbox. You aren't on the path.
I let my eyes drop. Snowy footprints lead from the door to my chair; they stop between my feet. The prints are your size, I realize, as a button is pressed and my soul drops low.
I feel the frosty mittens on my wrists and fall.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
Comments (2 so far!)
Average reader rating 5.00/5
I really liked this, i wish there were more pencilsbso i could show how much i appreciatted the fleeting ephemeral quality of the artist's rush.
- #1632 Posted 4 years ago
- 5 out of 5
- #3961 Posted 2 years ago
- Published 5 years ago.
- Story viewed 6 times and rated 1 times.
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