PDF

Mrs. Penfield


by Carl Santoro


    An increasing unpleasant pressure on Mrs. Penfield's left breast caused her to wake up enough to slide her body around to rest and face her LED alarm clock sitting quietly just past a mountain of pillow nesting under her nose. The clock face appeared as though a fading distant ember, dying slowly at some campsite populated with other fellow sleepers. It said 4:13 a.m. in a bedroom now engulfed in the smokey blue-grey of the early morning's stubborn light.
    Her very next thought was of coffee. She would cherish a first cup to motivate her to begin her day. Was it too early to rise? Was it too late? She checked herself for any latent yawns. No. She had no desire to yawn. Perhaps she had slept enough. Was she fooling herself or was she authentically rested?
    Now her right breast was annoying her. A slight twist here. A little nudge there. Now it was determined she must lie on her back. The ceiling was alive with spinning fan shadows, dancing one by one across the white desert of painted sheetrock. It was quiet , but the animation was loud, flashing long dark blades from its epicenter, right to the wall above her.
    The murky morning gloom of her room would soon be dissolved by the introduction of the morning sun. She weighed the possibility of rising versus staying put. Coffee sure would be welcomed. She looked for the lone campsite fire, with its glowing digital ember. It said 4:13 a.m.
    Coffee.
    

Endcap