Bedroom: Wake in a bed composed of him, your cheek pressed into the downy lanugo padding on his skin, your skull tucked gently into the whorl of his ear. Keep your fingers suctioned inside the wet cave of his mouth. Curl your limbs around the softness of his gut. Let his breathing roll you like a lifeboat lost at sea. Pull his plump pink arms across your empty torso. Ignore the alarm clock. Let his coos and gurgles ripple like a cat’s purr through your dreams.
Office: He hovers weightless over your desk, self-contained and glowing like a lamp too dim for productivity, and just bright enough to keep you awake. His light pulses but never grows. When you open your laptop it smells of soap, milk, and bread. When you drag the mouse across the desk, his eyes widen into coins. Your to-do list is a pile of ashes, a thin ribbon of sage. What is a paper clip? What is a power cord? He reaches for these objects, but you won’t let him play. The marks you manage are the script of a language you have invented but cannot read.
Kitchen: Perform your banishing spells. Measure. Chop. Stir. Dice. Knead. Keep busy. Carve. Bake. Hover around warm objects and anoint yourself with thyme. Flip page after page of cookbook after cookbook. If the bread sprouts fungus, if fruit flies make their rounds. If the milk sours, keep going. Cook for your elderly parents and for your neighbors. Carry offerings door to door. Leave muffins on park benches for strangers. Fill decorative fountains with soup. Cover all tables. Stock the pantry. Fill the freezer. Do not look out the window where he may appear in brief, but brilliant flashes. Where he may appear in the form of clouds, or leaves, or street signs. Do not ask about his appetite or wonder about his hunger. Whisk. Crush. Mince. Dissolve. Scramble. Simmer. Stew.
Bathroom: The water is not his blood. The water is not his tears. The pipes do not pump his insides out. The water is not amniotic fluid. The water is not his saliva. The water is not his urine or sweat. The water is nothing holy, nothing baptismal. It is not sperm, nor egg. The water is just water. It makes no promises of keeping you clean.
Attic: How many maybes have you stored in this attic? How many mazes have been built between boxes? How many spiders and how many urns? How many unboxed thoughts?
How high can you stack new and ancient stings? If you can part with one whisper, can you part with them all? How long can you lie on dusty wood floors and handle the stagnant heat? How many options? How many ghosts.
Backyard: You have your body. You have the air and the breeze. You can close your eyes, you can listen. Bees buzz in the clover patch. Mosquitos suck your blood. So many birds with their twirls of song, their batting wings carrying all their weight. A million leaves forever flutter on tree limbs. Sunlight blasts its way through even tightly clenched lids. Light fills any space. Your skin is here to absorb heat. If your body isn’t a vessel, it may be a blanket. Through a neighbor’s open window, a baby cries. Only just waking up.
The core workshop of SmokeLong Fitness is all in writing, so you can take part from anywhere at anytime. We are excited about creating a supportive, consistent and structured environment for flash writers to work on their craft in a community. We are thrilled and proud to say that our workshop participants have won, placed, or been listed in every major flash competition. Community works.