It begins with sound. One tiny sound, rather the idea of a sound, dripped into her brain with an innocent plop that splashes and jostles and causes all other notions to be washed from the center, bouncing back and forth against each other, a jumbling blur of ideas, none of them good, now that they’ve been blended in this strange, unfortunate way.
All that remains is the painfully sharp clarity of the one round drop of Thought that shreds her concentration.
Can you see it? Can you see it sliding through her brain, hitching a ride into her spine, across her right shoulder and into her arm? She can feel the weight of it, the responsibility of it, that one tiny Thought, traveling into her hand, reaching out.
This Thought. This Thought has completely overtaken her.
But Thought will claim its innocence: Something else is at fault. In this world of passing the buck, of it’s not my fault-ing, perhaps Thought has a point: Perhaps it begins further back.
Scent, then. A thin memory carried on blameless, invisible air through the house, on and up the creaky wooden stairs. Scent whispers to her.
She must respond.
She stands and heads down the stairs where her son stands dropping cookies from the tip of a silver spoon. He puts them in the oven where they will spread and grow into round drops of ideas and pretty glistening memories of which she will eat too many before heading upstairs to try and sort out her Thoughts.
This was written for a prompt at The Blogging Lounge, hosted by Ariana Browning. The prompt was begins with.
And, yes, I did make cookies (chocolate chip) the other day and, yes, they are calling to me. Doing my best to ignore them. Hang on…
Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+