“Write about a bucket of distaste.”
#239 from http://creativewritingprompts.com/
A bucket of distaste sits in the corner of the deck, bleeding red and brown lines into the wood grain. Fruit flies are besotted with the refuse in the blackening rainwater, and the smell of decay rides in waves on the hot air. Waxy potato peels float and brown bottles clink and swill beer. The sweet pulp of old fruit sinks to the bottom. Dying pear fibers billow when the wind rolls the brackish water. Coffee grounds stir and settle into piles. Cigarette ashes swirl like tiny windstorms. It’s a contained ecosystem, breathing out rot. Flies teem around the decay that blooms in cycles. People take quick steps back, mouths closing and throats drawing in against the smell. The bucket sat in the corner of the deck for too long, and no one wants to carry it out to the trash now. It’s too heavy, and it’s taken on a life if its own.