In the quiet clicking of the ceiling fan as its blades whirred round and round, the air currents it shifted were cool and light, and they carried bubbles. Perfect, delicate spheres of rainbow light and no colour rose up in the air and spun in the indoor winds. Below them on the soft, tired and worn carpet of seemingly-nonsensical blobs of dark shapes, there were bare feet dancing. Eager eyes, bright smiles. It was warm. The sunlight fell through the hanging, open blinds of the windows, there was ice-cream in a tub in the freezer.
We waved our magic wands and dipped them in potions of soapy water, lifting them to our lips and, with a breath, released perfectly temporary spheres. They caught the light as rainbow outlines, shimmering in the air. We'd blow as many as we could, giving them time and a false sense of security as they floated upwards, before popping them with a sort of brutality found only in children. Some exploded of their own accord as they met the fan, too high for our short figures to reach, however we endeavoured. Most, though, we destroyed ourselves.
It was us– myself and my younger sister–, it was summer and the holidays, and we had bubbles. That was enough, that was joy, and we didn't care that our mother didn't share our appreciation for the activity. It was warm, there was ice-cream and there was carpet beneath our feet, and we danced, our menacing young minds on bubble destruction.
YOU ARE READING
Spontanéité
Short StoryA collection of some bits and pieces of my written works. These bits and pieces weren't all spontaneous pieces of writing, though. They're descriptions of people, places and memories, and maybe they're short stories or other things. I don't know, it...
