Clang, Rumble, Screech

Clang, rumble, screech. Morning light spilled everywhere. Trees and flowers yawned.

The library bell tolled, though it wasn’t the sign of death or marriage or noon. It was the sign of shutters opening, blankets unfurling, pots coming to a slow boil, shoes splashing in memories of the night’s rain. Somewhere in town, the first cup of coffee was chugged. The first bagel devoured. The first newspaper unfolded.

Clang, rumble, screech. Iris Tessaro woke with a start. Her window was blasting a full-bodied ray of warmth and sunlight, flooding every corner of the room, exposing piles and heaps of books, memorabilia, and clothes. Groggily, she averted her eyes to the dull glare of the red clock.

The alarm! She had forgotten to set it. With a wild scramble, she jerked out of bed and hit the floor firmly. Her body clocked into action. She shoved some clothes on, grabbed her coat, swigged a mouthful of water, rushed downstairs, her father had already gone to the workshop it seemed, snatched a stray piece of toast, unhooked the keys, burst out the door, flicked the locks with rapid fire fingers, shoved on her moccasins, and ran down the street with lightning at her heels.


 

Writing month, day three, word count: 3305

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