Warm

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Warm

5-minute Drill

30 July 2013

 Michael:

"Warm Cream of Wheat and hot chocolate..." We repeated the mantra to ourselves, bundled up in suede, lined jackets and hats (of course), "because 40% of your body heat leaves through your heads!" We shuffled through the brisk desert morning, ahead of the dawn, with a wagon in tow and a stroller leading the way, both filled to overflowing with Sunday morning papers. Mom had woken us at 3am; we had a routine. Each of us hoisted a stack of papers by its plastic strap, settled down on the living room floor, and began to fold silently, sometimes breaking out into a spontaneous race to see who could fold the fastest. Then we packed the papers tightly into their containers, and Mom watched us head out into the darkness. I was 10, Angie was seven. We were entrepreneurs, and Warm Cream of Wheat, and hot chocolate would be waiting.

Rachael:

She liked things warm. She wanted the warmth of love to envelope her and to hold her close, snuggled in like a baby against a mother's breast. She silently punished herself for everything she thought she lacked. Connections... Even over a pint at the pub, she could not bring herself to make eye contact with someone. A warm cup of tea was her salvation. That's when she dreamed of warm days in Ibiza as a child, family on holiday. Yes, a cup of tea. She would catch herself clinging to a cup like her very life depended upon it. Perhaps it did. She knew she would head out into the November drizzle when the cup of tea was gone. Alone, looking towards the warmth of nothing. the embrace of chilly cotton sheets. She paused, waiting... avoiding heading out.

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Find

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Find

  5 minute drill
  30 July, 2013

Rachael:

"There's nothing to find here darling - this bed's been took already..." He moved down the hall, the sweet smell of opium, of sweat, filled his senses. He wanted to find a bit of something, someone to share his brandy with. He could care less if she talked. He just wanted to look into someone's eyes to make sure, absolutely sure, he was still alive. Ten long months on a ship, and he had money to spend. He knew he wasn't going home; there was nothing to be found in those dreams. Yet he wept when he dreamed in his native tongue, thinking about finding her waiting beside the gate. "Nothing to find here..." It resonated in his head, over and over. He sipped his brandy, leaning against a stone wall, watching the others who paid to find comfort, making their way to wherever, whatever they find in the darkest hours of the night.

Michael:

"The trick is to find your way without getting hurt," the burly man said matter of factly, as if he had done this a million times before, held a thousand maps tightly in his grip, on nights like this, when the moon played behind the clouds, bringing the shadows to life like monsters lurking in wait. "The trick is not to get caught by some wild animal," he said, several hours later, when the breathing behind us was getting louder. "The trick is to know when to give up," I was thinking to myself... "when to decide that enough is enough..." The man who had given us the map - hastily drawn in a last ditch attempt to give us something, anything that might make us choose to spare his life - had been lying, of course. He hadn't been smart enough to figure that in that moment he had made himself more valuable dead than living. We were not going to find a damn thing out here. That was the real trick of it all.

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