and my writing class begins.

I, by the suggestion of a great and talented friend, signed up for a class full of writers, real and better, with degrees, and jobs. I’m intimidated, and nervous, but excited to face a challenge of writing everyday in a company of impressive talent and opinion. So here’s my prompt for the day, describing a place… comments and criticisms welcome!

It’s 11:00am, which matters not when neither time or exhaustion are indicators of progress. The floor is parquet, small pieces of dull wood making a puzzle frustrated with no beginning or end. Its just like the one in the living room at home, but, hopefully, cleaner. The walls, covered in a maroon colored, fruit patterned, wallpaper, circa 1986, or some other year of unfortunate fashion. I wonder what this room designer is like, the one who decided the color of dry blood for walls looked upon for courage and strength. The runners outside the 5th floor window drip with sweat and rain, cold yet muggy, too, on this early Fall morning. They climb mile five, one foot in front of the other, in a continuous stride of determination and ‘almost there, you can do it’. I imagine flying by with speed and long legs, toned and tight, without veins or cramps or extra pounds. “Stop looking at them,” he says hoping the race ends soon because the envy is distracting and he is tired, too. The sheets are itchy, and confining, and hot. The gown is draping, revealing, too big, too ugly, too hot,  and not made for a woman so small and with so many opinions. The bathroom a few feet away, might as well be eight miles from this squishy ball, made for stretching and sit-ups, on which I sit, leaking, and swaying, as if rocking will make it end sooner and squish could absorb the pain. There is just not enough time before the next one begins to stand and make it there to empty this bladder full of mixed messages. The sun struggles to break through the haze, just like the one for whom we wait, while praying with beads of peace and rhythm, so long as I don’t find it annoying. The sound of hearts beating, muffled, and quiet, determine the moment and the future, too. There is a drip of contraction inducing medicine, steady and constant, up too high, for my liking. I wish she would turn it down, but fear all this stopping, and going home, just the same; fat and swollen, with no one small to hold, so I let it continue and bear its consequence with parched breath, dry and stale. Their offer of ice chips from one of the stacked styrofoam cups offends me. Their faces are in mine, as I demand they push my back, but no matter their amount muscle or sweat, nothing could absorb my body, that feels much too small to bring forth the life of my own, let alone someone else’s. The sound down the hall, of screaming, then crying, could be heard as motivation. Yet, it thwarts, and baffles, because I am not close, and if I hear the number 6, again, I think I’ll rip out the needle and throw it at the bearer of “not enough centimeters”. My thoughts turn to rulers, such stupid little sticks, whose measurements now dictate what I can do and when. The door continues to open and close with people intending comfort and help.  “You are on mile 20, maybe further” he says. But its worse, and he could never understand, even though the warm concern of his eyes indicates otherwise. I’m confused, and weak, and tired, and cannot possibly lift my legs, let alone climb back into the bed, right next to me. Its an enemy, high, and too hard and firm. The lights are bright, and reveal too much, of a lady. The stirrups offer cold support, but their presence seems more appropriate on a horse for someone strong enough to use them. The mirror should be thrown and cracked and broken. The silver table, ready to greet her, with a test, and to find her weight, seems too cold, far away, and rather judgmental. Now, its 5:00, and time is important, because it inspires a final push to end the pain. In an instant, she is here, with life; pure and true, and so am I, and the room is warm and happy. The floor supports, the runners finished, and the red walls listen, to joy and tears of miracles incarnate.

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