Waking Up by Susan Tepper

There is soup in a puddle around you, an orange puddle like melted, but you don’t understand how it got there, or why. Accept this and move around the puddle you think. But you feel rooted there. As if a tree is under the ground ready to sprout like springtime, and the roots are pushing against the soles of your shoes. You worry they will stain your shoes orange, all this pushing and puddling. You want to bend down and lick the puddle, lap at it like a cat then find a corner to curl in. Of course this won’t happen. Outside your tent is the war and you are so tired.


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Filed under Susan Tepper

11 responses to “Waking Up by Susan Tepper

  1. That last line brings it all home and made me read it again. And again. Peace…

  2. I’m a little confused by what is happening. Is she bleeding? Why would her blood be orange?

  3. Lyrical and surreal in a moment of reflection. I love the focus that takes the character away from the reality. Nice!

  4. love the alliteration. You feel the suck of this story as much as read the words.

  5. Catherine Davis

    This is beautiful. I love the troublesome orange. Love this directed tension, so wonderfully punctuated by “Accept this and move around,” and the final power of “Outside your tent is the war and you are so tired.”

  6. Kim Hutchinson

    Much said in beautiful language and in a small space.

  7. grey johnson

    I thought a lot about the roots pushing up beneath the shoes, and what a large, untrollable thing beneath the ground, during a war, might mean. I see you have written a number of things with “puddle” in the title, and I plan to look at them.

  8. Len

    so tiny and powerful. i love the poetic feel. “lap it like a cat” is very nice.

  9. “Orange is my favorite color,” he said, wrapping his entire self in the color.
    Thanks for this, I love your surreal, other-worldly qualities in your writing. Craft extra-ordinaire!

  10. John Riley

    The ambiguity of what is she waking up from, sleep as a tent and life as a war, gives this short piece a powerful resonance. I liked it more each time I read it.

  11. Pingback: Week #32 – Silence | 52|250 A Year of Flash

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