Listen…to the quiet warnings.
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Mei was preparing Chinese waffles in the family kitchen, getting the children ready for what was supposed to be a routine morning.
“Eh, get up! The school bus will be downstairs in an hour!”
10-year-old John and 8-year-old Sam sat up in bed.
With looks grouches would be proud of.
A horse racing calendar hung on the kitchen wall, omnipresent. Slightly dog-eared, Mei had flipped the pages countless times to mark important dates.
And yes, to make horse racing bets.
But the calendar didn’t turn on dog ears. Over time, they began to peel– and curl.
Almost like curved nails, reaching for attention.
Its metallic tang lingered in the kitchen, at he edges of her mind.
She fingered a number– the print felt too dense.
Alive.
The metallic smell grew as she neared certain numbers.
She glanced at it.
September 18th glared at her.
Familiar–yet wrong.
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She stared at the date for a few long minutes.
The metallic smell of the calendar turned her nose red.
Numbers started to peel off the pages–
Faster and faster.
The phenomenon was beyond Mei’s exhausted–yet frantic mind.
Her two-year-old toddler ambled into the kitchen and tugged at her sleeve.
She took the little boy in her arms– and his fingers brushed its pages lightly.
Another date flashed.
Her deceased grandmother’s birthday.
With a shocked gasp, she backed away, trembling fingers reaching for the kitchen knife on the table.
It tensed within her grip.
The dates were–too correct.
Her mind flicked to each one–as if it knew.
It stored–more than mere numbers.
It was telling.
Choosing.
It had–
Chosen.
Her.
She had to warn–or confront.
Fate lay in those numbers–hers, or another’s.
September 18th.
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The numbers on the calendar peeled off–
A whirlwind.
September 15th.
16th.
17th.
The metallic smell overwhelmed.
Mei’s pulse thudded.
“September 18th… I know this date…”
Then, she remembered.
Her older sister.
The one whom her mother had cried over countless family gatherings.
She had died after fingering a kitchen knife.
Curiosity.
She had turned it turned it–
To her heart.
The knuckles around the knife in her hand turned white.
She backed away from the calendar– near her toddler.
The knife.
Waited.
Then, she dropped it.
A sigh of relief.
She gazed at the young child, giggling, still tugging at her dress.
The calendar’s hinted page.
September 17th.
She clutched her young daughter’s arm.
The calendar curled. With the smell of metal.
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The Getting Literal Writing Alcove 