Tea and Turbulence – Aurora Phoenix

Tea and temperance

was that mercury you dolloped
by the teaspoon brimming
into the cup of my tempest teeming?

I have sipped on a brew
Weltschmerz steeped in introversion
while trouble boils and toils double
in churning unplumbed depths.

did you misapprehend my clime
striding presumptuous as you did
through the dead of my hurricane’s eye?

you skew the heated misconstrue
as my oft-bitten tongue scalds
on steaming leaves of fate infusion.

teapot not, though short and spouty
I whistle through cycles of cyclonic vision
salting the trail of your sluggish bluster

look out, quicksilver!
I’m on your tail


Aurora Phoenix is a wordsmithing oxymoron. Staid suburbanite cloaks a badass warrior wielding weapon grade phrases. Read more of her confabulations at Insights from “Inside.”

Dee by the Sea – Kristiana Reed

This piece is a continuation of Kristiana’s former piece “Dee”

 

Dee’s tea has been sat on the counter for fifteen minutes and I am yet to take my eyes off of it. It is surely now cold but I refuse to remake it. Five times I have called, to no avail. I boiled the kettle, let it whistle a little longer than usual. I made a racket with cutlery and dishes in an attempt to wake the sleeping lion upstairs. Nothing but the sound of my own discomfort.

 

I am pouring the tea into my stainless-steel sink when Dee appears, disheveled in the doorway. She is wearing a blue denim romper – a get up of chaffing ‘comfort’ – and a bird’s nest on her head.

 

“I thought we might go to the beach.” I state – saying ‘might’ to be polite but with no intention of having a conversation. Dee shrugs her shoulders and then begins to weep about how nowadays the sea and its existence only appears to her in dreams.

 

The beach is deserted. After all, it is seven am and in hindsight, perhaps I had been cruel waking Dee up so early; her tears not yet salty, still fresh like a baby’s. She is quiet in the majestic presence of the sea. Our breathing, gulls screeching and the waves calmly crashing transformed into a melody about life and the inevitability of death.

 

I wrap my arms around my shoulders, cradling my body in my hands. Dee slips off her shoes and leaves the lumpy sand behind to paddle along the shore. Her ankles glisten in the rising sun and surf. She looks as beautiful as I feel.

 

I visit the sea to find peace; a single dove looking to retrieve a misplaced olive leaf. There is something about how when the tide is out, it is already beginning to return. Every shoreline kiss, the opportunity to start again.

 

I hear a splash. Dee is stood waist deep in the sea, her romper discarded, blessing Neptune with her nudity. She is smiling, like I’ve never seen before and her hand is extended out toward me. I blush, my hand resting on the buttons of my dress.

 

“Come on, it’s seven am, no one will see… except the sea!” Dee giggles and it’s all she needs to say to me.

 

Kristiana Reed day dreams, people watches in coffee shops, teaches English and writes. She is a curator on Blood into Ink, a collective member of The Whisper and the Roar and blogs at My Screaming Twenties. She is 24 and is enjoying the journey which is finding her voice.