I hope you know that you pulled the rug out from under me when you disappeared on the wind. I am a disappearer too, so I know what it’s like to do that to others, and I don’t blame you. But I don’t want you to believe even for a moment in the empty future that your disappearance didn’t upend something in me, because it did. If I had known that night that I’d never see you again, I would’ve pulled you into the cab with me, and taken you home for the first time…
Her brother had a rug in his quarters. She stared at it from her spot on his floor, unknown to him as he slept in his bed next to her.
She hated that rug- it was shag.. She’d never liked the feeling of it upon her feet- even through socks or shoes.. especially right now in her bare feet.
Oh God, vacuuming! House cleaning! Washing windows! Emptying the canister! It’s all I do these days. Volcanic ash and microscopic particles of volcanic glass come in through my windows and doors from the Big Island on the trade winds. If I clean a surface, like the bathroom floor, then go into the kitchen to make coffee, when I return black bits are spread all over the floor I just cleaned. One woman I know, who is a military wife living in much more splendor than I am, said that her image of herself on the island of Oahu would be her at her entryway with a broom in hand, sweeping and sweeping and sweeping. I almost want to take a poll: Is vacuuming a rug when the vacuum cleaner has a cord that is about 80 feet in length and gets tangled on everything worse than washing a kitchen floor that immediately becomes dirty and/or wet from too shallow kitchen sinks or is using tooth picks to clean edges and holes and screens and nooks and crannies worse than either of those? Yes, a new rug would be nice.
It was an ugly tacky thing. It has a European pattern and was thread bare when they got it. It was easy to rub holes into the fabric. Indentions where the legs of the couch and coffee table had been.
Welcome, take your shoes off and make yourself at home. Don’t worry about leaving a mess behind, I’ll always be here to pick it up. You keep me around even though you never notice me here, waiting. Welcome, come in and walk right over me. I’ll be here every time.
It was boarded in red. The golden strings woven in the middle created an exotic image speaking of spices and far away lands. It stayed underfoot, only ever closely inspected by small children who would play over its surface. They would trace the lines, following them to dreams they had no remembrance of as they aged.
The ugly rug lay there, reminding her yet again of all the things that were wrong with her life. Burnt orange, slightly shaggy, dated and obscene, it embarrassed her, causing her great shame and humiliation, making it so difficult for her to breathe, her life was a travesty. First, the colour – not the purple, pink or even classic neutrals of her generation, this rug glared at her with a malicious ghastly hue that she did not choose, she did not want, she did not condone. Secondly the floppy, uncontrolled, upbeat pile- seriously who had shag carpet any more? It was an abomination and soiled the very essence of what was supposed to be HER space, HER bedroom, HER solace in this house of horrors.
The rug cold and wet beneath her feet. She wondered what caused this. Stepping over rest of the rug, wanting to prevent anymore moister to go through her socks. There was no sign of a leak in the house or through the door. Had someone spilled on it. If so who? She lived alone. Had someone been inside her apartment? Could they still be there? Thinking about leaving, with keys and purse still in her hands. She grabbed her shoes, they were by the front door where she kicked them off like she did evertime she came inside.
It was time for spring cleaning in the house, after the ugly snow that turned to black crusty filth after the first day. We pulled up all the rugs and dragged them outside into the yard, setting up stands to hang them over, and wail at them with the beaters to get all the dust and grime out.
She tackled him, all of a sudden, her knees hitting something in his windpipe that stung something fierce. Then she was on top, smirking victoriously, and despite the rug burns on his arms, he was just happy that she was here, with him, instead of out there and fighting something the both of them were too small for.
Everyone likes to say that I don’t have the courage to confront my problems. I ignore them, they claim with a pointed finger and a standard accusatory tone; I just pretend they’re not there, sweep everything under the rug. Well, why the rug, out of curiosity? I mean, my floors are all hardwood, and the carpeting upstairs can’t have anything swept under it. How about I keep my problems in an old empty vodka bottle instead, like preserving dying insects, and I enjoy watching their exoskeletons slowly decay in the sunlight from my kitchen’s bay window?
I used to have an oriental rug that was crafted with gold thread. There were three eyes and three hearts in the middle. The threads were monochrome so that at different angles you saw different colors. It was beautiful and happy, majestic and stunning. It had three nails in it, they cut me and gave me tetanus.
The rug was dirty and hadn’t been swept in years. Why did this suddenly bother her? It is not like she hadn’t walked on it a thousand times before. Somehow this time it was different. She reached down to pick the old thing up
I hope you know that you pulled the rug out from under me when you disappeared on the wind. I am a disappearer too, so I know what it’s like to do that to others, and I don’t blame you. But I don’t want you to believe even for a moment in the empty future that your disappearance didn’t upend something in me, because it did. If I had known that night that I’d never see you again, I would’ve pulled you into the cab with me, and taken you home for the first time…
Her brother had a rug in his quarters. She stared at it from her spot on his floor, unknown to him as he slept in his bed next to her.
She hated that rug- it was shag.. She’d never liked the feeling of it upon her feet- even through socks or shoes.. especially right now in her bare feet.
Oh God, vacuuming! House cleaning! Washing windows! Emptying the canister! It’s all I do these days. Volcanic ash and microscopic particles of volcanic glass come in through my windows and doors from the Big Island on the trade winds. If I clean a surface, like the bathroom floor, then go into the kitchen to make coffee, when I return black bits are spread all over the floor I just cleaned. One woman I know, who is a military wife living in much more splendor than I am, said that her image of herself on the island of Oahu would be her at her entryway with a broom in hand, sweeping and sweeping and sweeping. I almost want to take a poll: Is vacuuming a rug when the vacuum cleaner has a cord that is about 80 feet in length and gets tangled on everything worse than washing a kitchen floor that immediately becomes dirty and/or wet from too shallow kitchen sinks or is using tooth picks to clean edges and holes and screens and nooks and crannies worse than either of those? Yes, a new rug would be nice.
It was an ugly tacky thing. It has a European pattern and was thread bare when they got it. It was easy to rub holes into the fabric. Indentions where the legs of the couch and coffee table had been.
Welcome, take your shoes off and make yourself at home. Don’t worry about leaving a mess behind, I’ll always be here to pick it up. You keep me around even though you never notice me here, waiting. Welcome, come in and walk right over me. I’ll be here every time.
It was boarded in red. The golden strings woven in the middle created an exotic image speaking of spices and far away lands. It stayed underfoot, only ever closely inspected by small children who would play over its surface. They would trace the lines, following them to dreams they had no remembrance of as they aged.
The ugly rug lay there, reminding her yet again of all the things that were wrong with her life. Burnt orange, slightly shaggy, dated and obscene, it embarrassed her, causing her great shame and humiliation, making it so difficult for her to breathe, her life was a travesty. First, the colour – not the purple, pink or even classic neutrals of her generation, this rug glared at her with a malicious ghastly hue that she did not choose, she did not want, she did not condone. Secondly the floppy, uncontrolled, upbeat pile- seriously who had shag carpet any more? It was an abomination and soiled the very essence of what was supposed to be HER space, HER bedroom, HER solace in this house of horrors.
bug on a rug looking snug
The rug cold and wet beneath her feet. She wondered what caused this. Stepping over rest of the rug, wanting to prevent anymore moister to go through her socks. There was no sign of a leak in the house or through the door. Had someone spilled on it. If so who? She lived alone. Had someone been inside her apartment? Could they still be there? Thinking about leaving, with keys and purse still in her hands. She grabbed her shoes, they were by the front door where she kicked them off like she did evertime she came inside.
The weave in the rug was dizzying, the colors hurt her eyes. “No.”
“You don’t like it.”
“I really hate it.”
It was time for spring cleaning in the house, after the ugly snow that turned to black crusty filth after the first day. We pulled up all the rugs and dragged them outside into the yard, setting up stands to hang them over, and wail at them with the beaters to get all the dust and grime out.
She tackled him, all of a sudden, her knees hitting something in his windpipe that stung something fierce. Then she was on top, smirking victoriously, and despite the rug burns on his arms, he was just happy that she was here, with him, instead of out there and fighting something the both of them were too small for.
“Missed me much?” he deadpans.
Eliza rolls her eyes. “Oh, you wish.”
Everyone likes to say that I don’t have the courage to confront my problems. I ignore them, they claim with a pointed finger and a standard accusatory tone; I just pretend they’re not there, sweep everything under the rug. Well, why the rug, out of curiosity? I mean, my floors are all hardwood, and the carpeting upstairs can’t have anything swept under it. How about I keep my problems in an old empty vodka bottle instead, like preserving dying insects, and I enjoy watching their exoskeletons slowly decay in the sunlight from my kitchen’s bay window?
I used to have an oriental rug that was crafted with gold thread. There were three eyes and three hearts in the middle. The threads were monochrome so that at different angles you saw different colors. It was beautiful and happy, majestic and stunning. It had three nails in it, they cut me and gave me tetanus.
The rug was dirty and hadn’t been swept in years. Why did this suddenly bother her? It is not like she hadn’t walked on it a thousand times before. Somehow this time it was different. She reached down to pick the old thing up