A & O

Your Early Morning Freewrite — /1

A made tea with the sound of ravens hacking the dirt outside. They never heard that before. Like everything to A, this was something new. A watched them from the window, somewhat afraid of the curved winged’ things caught A watching in the act of feeding. Their curiosity outweighed their terror. The ravens jerked their tight necks back, readied their beaks, and thrust hard at the earth. Over and over the beasts battered the ground. Torn dirt and rugged pebbles exploded forth. In the dawn, bloody worms ripped to shreds lay dead on the ground, pulled from the cracks. A watched it all.

A pushed away from the window and observed their teabag float in the fresh steaming water, observed how the wet leaves bled and drove toward the walls of their favorite ceramic cup. They hovered their nose and eyes over the fading vapors, puzzled why their mind envisioned an image of a road with an infinite number of forks. A took the tea from their face and placed it on the table where they sat, but did not let go of the cup.

They bought the teabags from an older woman on the outskirts of town.

“Chamomile is what you want,” the old woman had told them.

“Why?”

“The truth is the moment. Chamomile helps, but try not to think about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Trying to act will take you out of whatever you are doing. Act to be and be in action. Drink the tea.”

Outside the old woman’s hut, A stood in the middle of the paveless road. A melody of confusion erupted side by side the birds in the willow trees that lined a river. A took one step one way, another step a new way. To be sure of direction was to be sure of life. Would they ever be again? A wondered.

Eventually, A made it home. The old woman had driven her.

“It was the least I could do filling your head up with my words and leaves,” the old woman laughed.

A took another sip of tea. It was quiet outside. The ravens appeared to be gone. A smelled hunger, unsure if it was theirs. They felt a new sense of wonder begin to grow in the pit of their stomach as the hot tea rolled down unreadied throat. A exhaled, elated in uncertainty.

Why was it their favorite cup? A moved their still waking hand, observed the cups curves, its consistencies, and its faults. Their was a crack at the bottom of the rim. A dug their nail into the rough edges where there was no finish. The gritty rawness of the material made A pull back. They would never know what was under the surface of everything.

The truth of it all would never be known to A.

After another sip of tea, A turned and caught the ravens in the air. They were flying for another patch of earth; a new moment to feed on.

Mitchell Duran is a writer of fiction, poetry, and non-fiction. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. He has been published in Black Horse Review, Drunk Monkey, The Millions, BrokeAssStuart, and more. He lives in San Francisco, California. Find more work at Mitchellduran.com