Micro Fiction Monday: End of Summer (BEDS 019)

I dipped my big toe in first. The water was cold—freezing, even—but so was the air around me. The sun was just beginning to shimmer above the horizon. It was too early to be awake, and far too soon to be leaving.

At least, that’s what everyone said. But summer was ending, and already I could see a yellow tint on the leaves above the cabin. Registration for classes had come and gone, and back-to-school ads plagued the radio that my sister had brought down to the beach every day. Now, the car was getting packed and loaded, and soon our summer home would disappear behind the mountains for another nine months.

I lowered myself onto the dock, easing the rest of my foot into the water. I swung my other leg around and eased it in, too, shivering as I did. There was no time to be slow, no time to get used to the temperature. So I slowly swung my legs beneath the water, hands gripping the dock, and stared off at the horizon as the sun inched its way up. The other cottages dotting the lake remained dark, and the birds and crickets remained quiet.

In that moment, it was just me and the lake. Just how I liked it.

                
Eventually, my peace ended. I was called back to the car, the engine revved, and we pulled out of the driveway for the last time. With my sister already asleep on my shoulder, I watched as our house disappeared out of sight, taking my summer with it.

Micro Fiction Monday: Mondays (BEDS 012)

“Gooooood morning, WTXY listeners! What a beautiful way to start a Monday, am I right? The sun is shining, it’s a beautiful seventeen degrees celsius, and we’ve got all the hottest tunes to start your week off right! We’re gonna—“

I slammed my fist down on the radio, and with a staticky fizzle, the announcer finally shut up. Last night, the idea of setting the radio as my alarm seemed ingenious—what better way to get me up and at ‘em as quickly as possible? Clearly, I didn’t account for the overly-enthusiastic host, which did more to chew at my nerves than motivate me to get out of bed.

I groaned and squinted at the sliver of light shining through my curtains. Mornings and Mondays are horrible enough by themselves—put them together and they’re basically a gift from Satan. I pushed myself up in bed, knowing that the longer I stayed there, the more likely it was that I’d fall asleep, and make the day worse than it already was. At this stage, there was only one thought on my mind.

Coffee.

I stumbled, half-blind and sluggish from the lingers of dreamland, out of my room and down the hall to the kitchen. I had to mentally track the process, for fear that any wander would result in broken ceramics on the floor.

Step one: grab mug. Check.

Step two: Fill with water. Check

Step three: pour into coffee maker. Check.

Step four: insert single-serve coffee grounds. Check.

Step five. I slammed my hand down on the “brew” button and leaned against the counter, waiting for the satisfying gurgle of God’s beverage being made.

What I heard instead was a moan, a hissing, and a pop as the machine sprayed water all over the counter, the mug…and myself.

Micro Fiction Monday: Saturday Mornings

Saturday mornings can be divided into one of two categories: either they are the Holy Grail of the weekend, or they are the spawns of Satan’s children. There is no in between.

The morning falls under the latter when I’m pulled from sleep by shrill beeping, with fewer hours spent in dreamland than I would have liked. When the commute nearly puts me to sleep, and the day feels like it should be over before it’s hardly even begun.

The former appears in the peak of summer, when the sun begins to shine through the trees, but the coolness of night still lingers in the air. When the dew clings to the grass and sticks to my feet, and returning to bed is the last thing on my mind. Without the fog of fatigue clouding my brain, the colours around me are more vibrant, shocking, beautiful.  The cold is welcome, not resented.

Put simply, Saturday mornings are infinitely more enjoyable when you have nowhere to be, nothing to do, and at least eight hours of sleep under your pillow.