Time for my own writing again. And I wrote this years ago. When I had just got back from Australia. When things were very different from what they are now.
A book was singing. Which book, I didn't know. I got up and stumbled out of bed, waving my hand vaguely at my side table, willing the noise to stop. It didn't.
I glared sternly at the higgledy piggledy pile on the table. Or at least as sternly as I could in my dazed, three-hours-of-sleep-is-just-not-enough state. Still that annoying tune. I opened and closed the books, figuring it was as good a way as any to silence the offending item. To no avail.
Finally I started flinging the books to the ground (something my mother always told me never to do) in an attempt to get the offending tome to shut the frick up! My sister unclosed one eye and looked at me. She had also been awakened by the racket and hoped I would put a stop to it, whatever it was.
I decided that this was an exercise in futility. The problem was too large for me to handle in the dark. I stumbled over to the switch at the other end of the room and shed some light on the matter.
Ah, illumination!
It was not a book singing. It was the phone ringing, singing, jinging...my blasted alarm!
I switched it off, shot my sister a goofy, apologetic grin, gazed at the books on the floor and climbed back into bed.
I could clear up the mess later.
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