Unfortunate Conflict of Interest

by Poema Escritor

The           arrangement was            simple. Easy           to remember.            Fairly           quick to          understand.            It             had               congruence. And             if it were a          word             too big,           they lined up.            Like          printed handwritten       letters from        a             grade          schooler’s              workbooks.             Like books on a shelf.              By number,           by color,              by the many            words that mean             one thing or mean              two things to           the author yet.                Neat.          Inspired.          Requesting                 a sense of loyalty          from            an imposed order.            Like a newly stocked             grocery store.       The devoted            precision and elegance            in             parallel design                was neither        questioned       or           doubted.           Observing            it,           she saw the curved                  corners with an                umber colored coffee stain               from a              thumbprint             or two.              The         coffee              she infused            with her hands.             Diffusing             the mode in which            she could              not            swallow in a gulp          or taken with cream         or             any such manner.           She            had            to turn            the dial down.                          Lay back.                        Brew            under the                   sun until               the skin that             shrouds            her unveils             into a crisp            feverish red.              She needed to            write a line or          two. Or             not at                 all for that matter.               Or in any sort             or              unconventional               or            not at              all.      She             had to fritter              or not at all.                 Or                meditate. Or                pray. Or                 pay inattention         to the            collector of              dues whose hands          time had brittled.

Or not at all.

Title inspired by Day 4 NaPoWriMo prompt and Scottish science fiction writer Iain M. Banks’ fictional spaceship.

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