A Bit to Read

For today’s word prompt story, I asked for the first word that popped into people’s heads over on Spoutible. And, as usual, you all delivered!

In case you aren’t familiar, I ask for words for a post, and then create a story prompted by and containing the words. It’s that easy! Well, in concept anyway. Word list appears at the end of the story for ease of reading. And here is today’s result:

It was during another sudden downpour, late at the tail-end of May, when, exhausted and drained, she realized she couldn’t make another salad. She couldn’t peel more garlic, she couldn’t carefully measure oil or vinegar or mustard or whir them all together in the blender.

In that kitchen, as crooked raindrops raced over the glass to the sill, she couldn’t remember feeling joy. And not in the typical modern angst way, the ennui inevitable with the mere act of living, but under the weight of fascist propaganda in all directions, while all was supposed to be normal.

What she wanted was tacos.

That thought still reverberated in her head, enough for her to start to salivate, when she saw it, there in the rightmost pane, framed by the wood that wasn’t quite peeling but had seen better days.

A single flake of snow.

Canadian by birth, now subjected to a land that didn’t always feel so foreign– at least until the ascension of a fully-fledged ass–she was no stranger to snow. But snow here, at this time of year, that was weird.

And so was that snowflake. As she watched, it shifted and changed while the rivulets ran around it, and then, breaking the suction of the wet glass, it unfurled, doubling and then tripling in size, iridescent gossamer wings glowing even in the gloom.

Slowly it beat those wings, as though to dry them, even in the damp, and antennae twitching, it sidled to its left, just a bit, to pick up some crumb of a plant stuck to the glass.

Without warning, a memory appeared before her, as the lightning crashed not too far away. She was little, maybe in kindergarten or slightly older, and she noticed her first butterfly, really noticed it, out in the corner of the school playground.

That day was sunny, and its wings shone as it rested on a bright yellow dandelion. She’d squatted down, as children do, and watched the wings move slowly up and down until another child, warning her recess was over, scared it into a darting, awkward flight.

She’d never seen a butterfly like this one, though, and wondered where it came from as it stayed on its side of the glass and she stayed on hers.

The woosh of the rain lessened and lessened, until there were a few fat, insistent drops. The butterfly stayed a few moments longer, and then it took off, shining in the light breaking through the clouds.

She inhaled slowly, paused, and tidied away the lettuce. She put away the tomatoes, and slid the cut onions into a container. She carefully replaced the garlic, the oil, the vinegar and the mustard.

Then she grabbed her phone to order and said yes to tacos.

Our words were:

remember, ass (modified), joy, crumb, tacos, yes, propaganda, fascist, snow, downpour, kindergarten, salivate, exhausted, garlic, salad, Canadian, angst.