Day 7: Coffee of the Day

The blog of the day is…

…If we were having coffee, it would be the witching hour. Around 5 a.m., occasionally, I grab a small Styrofoam cup. I fill it one-fourth way with sugar and cream. The more exotic the cream flavor the better. As long as its not peppermint or double chocolate.

I seize the coffee urn, tipping it slowly. I hold it at a specific angle because the stream often runs down the side of the urn. I never succeed. I pretend the coffee doesn’t spill and blame the person who pours the next serving.

The dark blend morphs into a caramel-color. I inhale the steam. Decent. The taste: Sweet. Caffeine is buried by the sugar, weariness drains the will to remain awake. I’m tempted to get another cup. Time is winding down, so I wait for breakfast before I decide to put something else in my stomach.

The morning shift is done, and the coffee has left me with a bubbly stomach ache. The next day, a co-worker brings an exotic blend: Pumpkin Spice. I envision the routine from the previous day.

If we’re having coffee we’re directing the news.

Tonight the challenge ends. I’d like to thank the Write Tribe for challenging me and other bloggers to find the edge we needed to blog daily. Maybe I’ll take on another challenge to keep myself busy. Also, I’d like to thank those that like, share, and/or read my blog posts. I’ll be sure to do the same.

 

Advertisements

Where passions are kept

Every now and then I’d get these little sparks that ignite furious wildfires in my mind reminding me of my initial passions of my current life choices. 

All I got is smoke. I got a feeling that what I strive for is behind the smoke. I’m trying to get to it before it turns to ash or rendered invaluable by unrelenting sut.

There’s no water in sight. No dust to calm the inferno just an inability to control it. So, I let it burn. I could see it better if it weren’t for the smoke. It has no where to go. A dome contains it choking the air it needs to breathe. 

It wants to be free, and I want to release it. Its exposed in increments like a chef teasing his culinary potential. Its witnesses only see smoke. 

Despite it’s stagnant life, I feel pressure building against the will of the dome. The walls are solid, sustainable yet unwanted. It seeks to reshape the flame and control how it burns.

The pressure builds. I’m waiting on the chance to fuel its ambition and when it does, I’ll be there to watch its light spread.