The black plastic contraption sat half buried under what had probably once been a small table but was now nothing more than soaked debris. The object was a sorry sight; parts were melted and warped, a layer of ash and grime had built up thick on its surface and was quickly turning to a mess from the rain. There were a few recognizable letters near the top which hadn’t been worn away or covered in filth: ‘E’ and ‘U’ next to one another, then a gap, and then a very faint ‘G’.
The woman pulled strands of wet hair out of her eyes and squinted at the letters as she crouched down next to the misshapen hunk of plastic.
“E, U, G,” she said quietly to herself in a musing way. “Eug? That’s not a word I’ve ever heard before. I wonder what you are?” She examined the tarnished silver piece at the front. It reminded her of a bucket handle turned sideways, in miniature form. But it was too small and too oddly placed to be a handle.
The woman reached out a dirty gloved hand and touched it, then curled her fingers around it, and pulled very slightly.
The top of the contraption moved, just a bit, as though it were on a hinge. She changed the direction of her pull and the top creaked open, revealing a small, almost cylindrical compartment. She leaned forward to peer at the space more closely.
With her face inches away from the object, she caught an aroma, one she hadn’t smelled in years but would always remember, one which nestled deep in her past and triggered memories which rushed in.
A room, small and dim, but warm. Comfortable. Safe.
A fire, crackling and popping. A conversation happening around her but not including her; it’s alright, these are people she loves and trusts. Their voices are comforting.
A low whistle, steam coming out of a shiny kettle, a woman (mother?) lifting it from the hook over the fire.
The clink of cups, the sound of water being poured. A rich, earthy scent. It was a well-loved aroma, it meant the beginning of the day and toasty hands around the mug and a bitter sweetness that bloomed into contented warmth.
“Ma’am? Are you all right?”
The woman blinked. She was sitting in the mud, the light rain quickly escalating into a downpour and soaking through her layers of old clothing.
She looked up into the concerned face of the man standing next to her. Blinked again.
Something inside of her had changed. A door that she had slammed shut was opening again. A heart that she had hardened was beating again.
A hope that she had felt turn to dust in her hands was blooming again.
Then, for the first time in more years than she could remember, she smiled.
“Yes, I’m all right. For the first time in a long time, I really am.”
The woman stood. She looked down at the melted, twisted lump of black plastic. “Thank you,” she whispered.
She turned again to the man. “I remember what I’m fighting for. What we’re all fighting for. Home and family and comfort and safety. If not for us, for our children, or our children’s children. They WILL have that again, I swear it.”
And then she walked out of the ruined building into the street, where she retraced her steps to return to her people. The man walked beside her. He didn’t know what had happened back there, but he knew from the fire in her eyes and the determination on her face, that their leader had returned.
God damn. They were going to win.
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Day 1 Prompt: Write a story in which a broken coffee maker has a huge impact on the world around it.
Fantastic!
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