The beauty of normality should be considered, says my teacher. And I agree.
But I'm still writing my fiction. Because I can.
This is an assignment I've worked on for the class, glorifying a typical morning in the life of me.
Please enjoy.
by Ashley S. Harmon
Cramming the teal toothbrush between my teeth, I shot the mirror a savage look. Late mornings tended to dampen my ability to act civilized, even to myself.
Body washed of sleep. Hair baked to a crisp. Face painted for battle.
Now, I just needed breakfast.
I spat noisily into the sink and rinsed my mouth of the excess mint. Combating morning breath was never a joy, but in a civilized world, it was a must. Perhaps when I reached my senile years, I’d find an excuse to be stinky.
My feet found a pair of shoes and flung me to the kitchen. My hands snatched up portable snacks for lunch and stuffed them into my satchel. My arms swung wildly, desperately trying to balance my fast-flying legs in the morning rush. And then, all in unison, my limbs stopped moving.
I still needed breakfast.
Such a thought would fail to bring my body up short under normal circumstances. I made deciscions in the blink of an eye, reacted automatically to every surprise thrust into my face.
But today, I was out of spoons.
Yogurt or cereal, bread or granola? The wheels in my head whirred to life, scrambling to calculate every possibility in the least amount of time.
Cereal. I crave blueberries.
Ignoring my lack of the necessary utensil for eating such a thing, I dumped out a bowlful of my favorite morsels, drowned them in milk, and fled for the door, my satchel banging heavily against my thighs. I paused before exiting completely, debating whether to use my fingers or a fork to eat the bedeviled gruel. No, there wasn’t time to go back.
Just slurp it, I dictated before slamming the door.
I was well into my commute to the office when I noticed a major flaw in my plan. In the time it took to buckle in and beeline for the freeway, my beloved breakfast had sunk into a soggy clump. If I tried to tip back the bowl and swallow, I got a trickle of milk and a face full of mush.
Muttering to the steering wheel, I resigned to plucking out little pinches and jamming it between my lips before the milk could drip onto my pants. Driving with my knees, I dug my fingers into the sop and ate.
It was during my adaptation to the discomfort of sticky, cold fingers when another obstacle presented itself. I leaned forward, struggling to bump the radio’s power button with my elbow and failing with every waggle.
There I was, a prisoner to my breakfast. The seatbelt strapped me to the seat, the milk and cereal sullied my fingers, and the atmosphere was choked of human sound.
And it all could have been remedied if I only brought a fork.
Grating my teeth, I shoveled the rest of the grainy stew into my mouth and swallowed the lump. The empty bowl found an instant home on the passenger side floor. My fingers wedged into my mouth and were sucked of their stickiness. And the road became a little safer, my hands replacing my knees in steering the wheels.
I punched the radio on, settling into my seat as the comfort of human voices chased away my solitude.
Next time, I'd spare a second and grab a fork.
