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Weekly Contest #378
The air in the master bedroom has a taste, though I have not breathed it in a hundred and thirty years. It tastes of dried lavender, copper, and cold, stagnant tallow. When the light dies behind the oak trees outside, I take my place at the foot of the brass bed. It is not the same bed where I spilled my life onto the feather mattress, but the room remembers where mine stood. The floorboards beneath the modern rug still carry the quiet groan of the doctor’s heavy boots and the hysterical rustle of my mother’s black silk skirts. Below, the ne...
Weekly Contest #377
The air in the master bedroom has a taste, though I have not breathed it in a hundred and thirty years. It tastes of dried lavender, copper, and cold, stagnant tallow. When the light dies behind the oak trees outside, I take my place at the foot of the brass bed. It is not the same bed where I spilled my life onto the feather mattress, but the room remembers where mine stood. The floorboards beneath the modern rug still carry the quiet groan of the doctor’s heavy boots and the hysterical rustle of my mother’s black silk skirts. Below, the ...
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