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  • Writer's pictureQueen of Spades

Throwback Tuesday: Beauty in the Spectrum

Hello everyone! Queen of Spades here. It's another installment of Throwback Tuesday. Today's throwback was an impromptu short story I wrote for the "Ramblings" segment back in 2016. Dedicated to a special young one in my life, here's "Beauty in the Spectrum".

Beauty in the Spectrum

A strange sound emits in proximity to the pillow. My lips twist in confusion until I realize that although I’ve had my new phone for a week, it is not been acclimated to my specifications. This must be remedied since the phone possesses a name. I only name things that are of great use and rename people via nicknames who are of the most beloved.

I lower my face closer to Angel— the nose hovers just above the screen. Although my body contemplates “Snooze”, the finger taps and slides the red X, ceasing the alarm’s blare. A gentle head butt from Needy the Cat echoes that the time to rise is here.

My feet move from the bedroom to the bathroom. Without looking I reach, then twist the knob to start the shower. Inspiration hits while my bladder empties. I search for my blue Bic Velocity pen but discover it is not at the usual spot.

Could Richie have moved it last time he was here? Luckily, the backup pen—same brand but red—remains. I tear off a few sheets of Charmin tissue and start to write some lines, but the ache of my body renders my flow sluggish.

Yes, I need some cleansing to regain focus.

I set my scribe in my hiding spot before flushing the toilet. In no time, steam, water and the scent of Ivory Aloe Vera body wash collaborate—readying me for the day ahead. After adorning my work ensemble, my temperament shifts from calm to urgency. Time sprints on this day when it normally dawdles.

I pay the price for my delay. Honks, shouts, and curses litter the air. I am not far enough to see if the cause stems from an accident. Weary of hearing Drake’s “Hotline Bling” on the radio, I shut it off, turn on Angel’s voice recorder and spit some lines. No, not quite lines but ideas that could be parts of a poem—not necessarily the one waiting for me at home. I shut off the app once the traffic moves.

I approach the office parking lot, thankful space is still at the front. The eeriness tickles my skin because the lot is too empty. Once I get in my area of operation … also sparse. Did I forget it was a holiday?

My co-worker gives a puzzled glance, inquires if I got a text or a phone call from my boss. Apparently, there is construction to take place so only the essential employees are to work today.

Um … guess which category I fall under?

While traveling back, I listen to what was recorded earlier. It makes not a bit of sense now! That is what I get for swapping Orange Pekoe Tea for extra creamy coffee. Perhaps this tea contained a hallucinogen that transforms barbaric ramblings into psychological masterpieces. Whatever the rationale, deletion is this audio’s final destination.

All is not lost—there is still the treasure in the bathroom.

I burst out laughing when my roommate wields a mop handle at the top of the stairs. “You scared the jalapenos out of me; aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

I explain to her how minuscule my place is on the work chain. This gives her a chuckle. T-shirts and pajama bottoms are my new attire. Now dressed for comfort, I am all set for my writing zone just as soon as I pull out my creation …

There’s an empty space where the red Bic Velocity pen and six strips of toilet paper used to be. My contact lens case, multiple plastic bottles of medicine, a couple of eyebrow and eyeliner pencils splay in the sink and around its base. The vessels near my temple throb. No longer able to contain my angst, a piercing scream escapes.

My roommate scrambles to check on me.

“Where.Is.My.POEM? It.Was.Right.HERE.”

My roommate is not sure but suspects that her son Richie may have opened the cabinet to grab something. She assures me that he will be in deep doo-doo once he gets home from school.

The space of time is torture. Sure, I could have composed more writings, but my heart and mind are stuck on what is taken. Yet, it is only speculation … the theft. What if Richie mistook it for extra toilet paper and my special words were in Septic Tank City? Oh, the horror!

I brace myself once Richie arrives. Richie does not respond well to agitation so my approach to this situation is crucial. Unfortunately, he senses terror because of the angry look on my roommate’s face and the way she is pointing at the empty space while glaring at him.

“I took it to school to finish it,” he blurts.

“Where is it? Give it to her NOW,” she huffs.

We follow him to his bedroom. He opens the book bag and hands me a sheet of construction paper. Since the topic is puzzles, Richie not only turned my words into well-crafted puzzle pieces but added what he thought would be a fitting ending.

My eyes are misty—partly shame for being so angry but mostly touched at the beauty of his added stanza. The world tends to make fun of Richie because of his disorder. I see a spectrum of intelligence that not everyone can understand.

“Don’t be mad. I made it better, didn’t I Auntie?”

I smiled before kissing him on the forehead. “Yes Richie, you certainly did!”

The End

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