Poignant Blurs

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"Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach. Check your road and the nature of your battle. The world you desired can be won. It exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours." - Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged

Monday, February 07, 2005

Starts and Stops

Trina Robertson balanced a ciggarette in one corner of her mouth, squinting her eyes against the smoke. With one hand she was stirring the contents of a small pot on the stove, and with the other she held her glass of red wine, tilted, and she swayed slightly. In the pot was the contents of what frozen vegetarian packages had been left crusting in her freezer for the past month. Nothing else remained in the fridge. There was plenty of wine though. Wine kept her warm and helped her to sleep.

She left the pot to cook and went out to the small den area (it was a studio apartment) to watch television. She flopped on the futon and pulled up an ashtray. She set the wine glass on the table, laid her head back, and promptly went to sleep.

She awoke an hour later, choking on smoke. Her hair and the cushion of the futon were smoldering from the abandoned ciggarette, and thick black smoke wafted from the kitchen.

"Goddammit!" She swore, and ran to the kitchen. She opened the two doors in the small building and dumped the pot in the sink. The pot was practically worthless, this was the fourth time she'd burnt it

She wasn't hungry anymore anymore anyway, but felt a tinge of sadness seeing the last of the food gone to such waste. Then she felt an odd sense of satisfaction, and as the air began to clear, she closed the doors and fell back asleep without difficulty.

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