Sandy Supposes....

Room to Roam

PROMPT September 1th

Well, let's get this official month started with a different sort of prompt... What room in your home do you use the most? The least?

         

         

         

         

         

Sigh, all the rooms of my home are currently gathering and supporting dust bunnies. There may be a few musty tumbleweeds roaming at will as well. Quite possibly cob webs festoon neglected corners.

         Yes, the scatterbrained maid has been vacationing all summer putting her feet up and lifting nothing heavier than a paperback novel. I doubt visions of a feather duster dance in her head.

          I, er, um, the maid has retreated to a seasonal trailer tucked into a serene forest bordering a freshwater lake. Her favourite room has no walls whatsoever. Day after day, this weary dust warrior settles into a comfy chair and props her legs up on a cushioned ottoman. Oh, her special piece of heaven isn't entirely silent. Out on the wooden deck, the steady whisper of turning pages is accompanied by a cacophony of constant sound.

          In a nearby towering pine tree, an agitated red squirrel slashes his tail and chitters in a rat-a-tat fashion. From the ground, a vibrating chipmunk with disheveled fur 'harrumps' in reply. Both parties attempt to out shout the other.

         Flashes of blue streak across my the languishing maid's peripheral vision and foliage rustles, branches snap. Blue jays chase each other in an aerial game of tag.

         Echoes of chick-a-dee-dee-dee reverberate.

         A skittering, scrabbling startles the engrossed reader and she looks up from her novel to witness a cheeky chipmunk, its scruffy tail at attention, saunter across the deck's floor to her feet. The encounter is brief. The red squirrel scampers up the ramp with a high-pitched 'chirr' and his target skedaddles. It may well have been my her imagination, but the floorboards rumbled.

         Something whines and buzzes about my her head. Careful to keep at least one finger tucked into her book, the disturbed reader swooshes it through the air swatting at the determined intruder.

         A caressing breeze carries muted hoots and laughter from the direction of the lake. Motors grumble to full roar. Snatches of music swirl.

         With a sigh, I, oops, she rises to her feet, stretches, and shuffles into the humid trailer. In her least favourite room, the stuffy kitchen, she rifles through a cupboard in search of a snack. From the fridge, she retrieves a cold drink.

         Returning to the deck, she once again settles into her favoured reading spot. It's the waning days of August and too soon she will be forced to return home to await the return of winter. Maybe she will tackle the dust then.