Three Minutes on Your Own

Normanday #60: Norman takes a vacation.

 

It’s hard coming up with these writing prompts. Write for three minutes…

 

…about something you think of because I need a break.

 

Email what you wrote to woof at bright dot net by the end of the day January 27 (put “Norman Eats Ice Cream for Breakfast” in the subject line). I’ll post as many of my favorite entries as I want next Monday. Include your first name (or, even better, use a pen name) and age (unless you’re tortoise-old). If you’re a published children’s or young adult writer, include a biography to be posted with your entry.

 

Here are the entries from last week when I asked you to write for three minutes…

 

…describing something hot.

 

 

Miraclegray

Toaster pastry,
nice and hot,
pops up golden brown
from my toaster.
I grab it by the edges,
scorching my finger tips.
I quickly flip it onto the plate
and add some gooey icing.
The pattern melts on top.
“Be patient,” I tell myself,
but the smell entices me.
I bite in too soon.
The red gooey inside
lightly burns my tongue.
I try to remember if it is
raspberry or strawberry.
I want to savor it but
gobble it up.
Toaster pastry,
nice and hot.

 

Cranberly

Sleeping soundly, under a sheet, a fuzzy gray blanket, and a thick navy blue comforter. My husband snores quietly beside me. He is covered from toes to nose. He radiates heat, even from 5 inches away. I was comfortable for a few hours, but suddenly I am quite hot. The bed beneath me is so warm from absorbing my body heat throughout the night. I kick off the comforter and try to get comfortable with just the blanket and sheet. No good. I am still burning up. I stick my feet out from under the blanket. It helps a little, but my pillow is so hot. I flip my pillow over. It’s cooler, but quickly starts to heat up under my warm face. Finally, I get up and pad quietly to the bathroom. My cheeks are red. I get out the thermometer. No fever. I get a drink from the faucet. It’s cool and refreshing. I splash my face with cold water. I roll up the sleeve on my nightgown and look at the quarter size red bump on first my right arm and then my left arm. I press them gently. Both are so hot. The reaction to the vaccinations should only last two weeks at the most, my doctor said, but the nurse said her reaction lasted for three months. I hope she is wrong. The baby will be here in 8 weeks. I need to sleep and not have these hot flashes at night. I go back to the bedroom and feel my side of the bed. It still feels so hot to me. I finally decide to head into the living room and lay on the sofa, next to the large window where a chilly breeze sneaks in. We are supposed to fix that window—cover it in vinyl or something to keep out the chilly, mid-January air. But for now I am grateful for the chilly breeze. My body is burning. I close my eyes and soon start dozing on the sofa arm. I awake an hour later, cold and disoriented. I sneak back into bed. My husband turns over, burning hot. I snuggle next to his back, wondering why the heat never wakes him. The baby kicks and I think how he will soon be here. I lie awake, eyes wide, mesmerized by the unknown future.