Here you will find aphorisms, poems, quotes and flash fiction presented from my heart to yours. This journal is filled with short and sweet reads for your daily commute, study breaks or whenever you desire. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I...
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The air was gentle and balmy when the woman who quite ironically 'manned' the turntable shop began to scream. She stood behind the counter of her gramophone store with her feet inch deep in blubbery mucus. Her water broke. The flood gates had opened and the damned dam was about to unleash the down pour of a baby's cry. No one else was around. Only her, and a couple hundred turntables, which included a giant one in the center of the shop. They used it during promotions, allowing customers to stand upon them and click pictures; the wealthier customers took moving pictures.
She plopped down on the big turntable on account of her weakness and tried to remember what she had read in books. With her legs raised upon the mock stylus she began to breathe heavily. In her mind, thoughts of her seafarer husband kept her in comfort. He was away, as he always was. Hopefully a child could bring him back for good. The shop could use some help as well. It was strange, even with the baby's head, ironically making headway through her passages. She was still thinking about the bills she had to pay, the leaky faucet in the washroom, and the stupid dog that kept voiding its bowels outside her door. Even her skyward facing eyes betrayed her. All she could look at was the ruins of an eight legged empire. Cobwebs on the corner of the ceiling. The spiders had moved on since, but their homes remained there, collecting dust and grime. Becoming more and more visible.
She had to do all this by herself. Including giving birth to her first born. It was overwhelming. Tears began to roll down her cheeks but she didn't notice it. Her breathing kept getting louder. At the end of every breath she pushed for dear life to give life to her soon to be dearest. Her eyes were red, face flushed, hair messed up (even more than it usually was), and sweat stains on her pits growing larger with time. Push, push, push, she thought. Push, push, push, she did. She could feel her pelvic girdle stretch to its limits as her bones creaked, exactly like her shop doors that needed some oiling.
The head of the little baby popped out like a mushroom, and with it came a deluge of high pitched cries. The silence of her vacant shop filled with the cries that sounded like the worst violinist ever. The pain caused her head to spin, while she was on a turntable with the worst music being played. Another few hearty pushes and the baby fell on the mockup of the turntable, crying even louder.
Slowly lifting her head and looking at the child she thought to herself, 'it might turn out to be a good year afterall'.
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