Period. 20 minute Shotgun Prose

Written from 12:00 p.m. to 12:20 p.m. in my bedroom while my husband watched football.

I got this in my head after reading a call for submission for works by women about menstruation. 

The fourth week of my cycle I call my Lunar Week.  This special week I stock up on cheap wine, spicy black tea, and good dark organic chocolate.  During this time I feel hypersensitive to the natural world. I smell colors.  I feel sounds.  I hear the thoughts in the surrounding flora and fauna, and I write.

During my Lunar Week I feel magical and enchanted, powerful and electrified.  I hear the arthritic old oak trees moan, the coyotes scheme and the lovesick leopard frogs yearn for more love.  My hands hold wood pencils and handmade paper to tell the tales the earth sings to me at twilight.  The morning mists whisper stories through my mint, and I write.

During my Lunar Week I understand my precious touched time lasts only days so I learn to ignore the typical American dooms day default that this event should be considered one of the worst curses of womankind, second only to "the change".  I disagree to that fabricated commercial lie and understand that due to my Lunar Week I am one with the elements, susceptible to the spirit world, vulnerable to the colors of the air, conscious to the best kept secrets, and I write.

I wish I were writing this during my Lunar Week, as I am certain it would sound more beautiful and true.