OLWG #301- Scooter Boyle Goes ‘a Callin’

This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”

Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.

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It was a fine Spring day when Scooter Boyle walked seven miles through the woods to call on Miss Savannah Jean.

He got there and found her house in complete disarray. Dishes were piled high in the kitchen, the bed was unmade, and garbage overflowed the bin. Neither Miss Savannah Jean nor her old yellow dog was anywhere to be found, so he searched. He eventually found her unconscious in the outhouse. She sat propped on the seat, leaning against the wall with her knickers around her ankles and bare feet in a pool of vomit. Her mouth was open wide; she snored loudly.

Scooter carried her over his shoulder and sat her up against an old stump in the yard while he fetched a bucket of water. Then he stood back and tossed the bucket of cold water on her from about eight feet away. She was soaked.

Savannah Jean blew water from her mouth, shook water from her hair, jumped up and screamed when she tripped over her knickers, which were still around her ankles.

“What’re you doing, Scooter? You horse’s ass!”

He stopped her right there, “No, you’re the horse’s ass, Savannah Jean. You promised to give up drinking, and here you’ve been in yer daddy’s Korn! I walked all the way from my momma’s place to come courtin’, and here you are, drunk as a skunk. You oughta…”

“I’m just doing what the doctor told me to do, Scooter,” she interjected as either an explanation or an excuse.

“The doctor told you to drink till you pass out in the outhouse and puke all over your feet?”

“Well, not in those exact words, but he told me not to keep things bottled up.” She studied Scooter to see if he was buying it.

Scooter was doing his share of studying Miss Savannah Jean. He liked how the bucket of water had made her clothes cling to her curves. He could see the dark of her nipples trying to push through the light blue fabric of her blouse. He thought she looked a bit sad with her hair all wet and hanging down. He smiled.

She smiled.

They walked back to the house and she fell asleep on the Davenport that had been her Mama’s.

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This week’s prompts are:

1. 1. lost dogs, mixed blessings
   2. suspiciously plausible
   3. vagabond

OLWG #297- Temples Crumble

This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”

Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.

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Junior’s earliest memory was watching his mother picking weeds in a small patch of grass that he assumed was somewhere in Kansas.

But, he couldn’t tell Dr Ambrose that. Dr Ambrose wanted something to happen. He wanted action. So Junior lied.

“It’s hard for me to say for sure, Doc.” Junior paused to study the therapist and think of something dramatic to tell. “I have a lot of early memories that seem to stand alone; I lack context for them. Don’t know why I even remember them.”

“Hmm,” the Doctor intoned as he worked to assign great import to that observation. “Which one seems earliest to you, Junior?”

“I guess that would be my mother crying as she worked in the kitchen. I don’t know what she was doing, probably cooking, and I don’t know why she was crying. As I said, I don’t even know why I remember this. Just that I do. In my memory, she is wearing a frilly white apron and facing away from me. I must be sitting in my high chair. She might be looking at the sink, at the stove, or out the window. I only remember that she was crying.”

“Any others?” Dr Ambrose asked.

“Well yeah, I have a rather vivid memory of my father and me. He’s driving the car, and I’m lying on the passenger seat. I remember my dad drove a grey and pink station wagon. Well, maybe I don’t recall the car itself, but I’ve seen photos of it. I might just be assuming that was the car here. He has a cloth bag filled with cash. Well, I presume it’s cash. He keeps pulling what I remember as paper bills from the sack. He laughs as he covers me in money. I’m crying, and he’s driving fast.

“I believe, Doctor, that you know of my father and who he was. He was Ethan Barden. He was a bank robber. Not a very good one. Wound up getting himself killed by the FBI during a gunfight just over the river in Missouri. I think I was almost five years old.”

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This week’s prompts are:

1. yeah, technically it’s illegal
2. how does she act around children
3. clouds make the wind blow

 You can start writing whenever you want, just write, get the words down – and have fun! All the best!

OLWG #296- Rosillaquipo Ranch

This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”

Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.

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Raymond woke in a hospital bed. His entire body ached, and he began taking stock of his various appendages, starting with his head, which hurt like a motherfucker. There was a cast on his leg (hanging in traction). His left buttock was numb although the feeling returned about halfway down his thigh. He glanced downwards and pulled his hospital gown out of the way.  Bruises and red discolouration wrapped around his hip from the back and almost reached his manly parts. There was a lingering sulphurous odour permeating the air. He tried to move, he tried to get up but the elevated leg precluded that. An alarm began to sound.                                                                

A nurse hustled into the room; shaking her finger at him, “Please Mr Avendano, stay in the bed, you can’t get up. Not yet anyway.”

“What the hell,” Raymond said as he eased back onto the bed, plastic crinkling noises almost masking his question. “What happened? Where am I?”

“You’re at Pinnacle General, but you know that.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know that. Who are you?”

“I’m Nurse Manners, but you know that too. We visited for almost an hour last night.”

“Nurse Manners? Is that what I should call you?”

“Yes. That would be fine.”

“Well, Nurse Manners, even though we have already discussed these things, my original question still applies. What happened and why am I at Pinnacle General?”

“You don’t remember, do you?” Nurse Manners shook her head slowly back and forth, pityingly. We’re not sure of all the details, but Carter James told Sheriff Meeker that your little European convertible went off the road just this side of Blanket Creek. The verge is pretty smooth there, so you went all the way to the Rosillaquipo Ranch fence. That’s at least fifty yards or more. You took out five fence posts and hit a power pole. The pole broke and one of the wires caught a rattlesnake. The snake was killed or almost killed, right next to your car.

“By the way, Roger from the service station towed your car into the shop. He says the front end is busted up pretty bad, and he wants to talk with you before he starts working. I told him we’d let him know when you felt well enough to do that.” She paused and looked at me, nodding her head with a questioning look haunting her eyes.

I waited for a few ticks and figured that she must be waiting for me to acknowledge something. “OK,” I said, and she picked the narrative back up, ‘Well then, where was I? Oh yes, Carter says that you shook your head and stood up on the seat. When you went to jump over the door and get out, he saw a big flash, like lightning. The doctor thinks that you probably hit the power wire with one hand and touched the metal car body with your foot. You got electrocuted, and that’s probably when your hair caught fire. You know that nothing smells worse than burnt hair.

“You fell, broke your leg, and landed on the snake. He bit you on the butt. Carter James called 911, and that’s how you ended up here, at Pinnacle.” Nurse Manners reached over and patted me on the leg, “Can I get you something, anything? Maybe some ice chips or a drink of water?”

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This week’s prompts are:

1. got a job, dealing faro
2. she was a ‘good girl’
3. in a town this size

 You can start writing whenever you want, just write, get the words down – and have fun! All the best!

OLWG #295- Poliosis

This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”

Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.

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Martie was 12 years old and in grade seven; when she noticed the first grey hair. It grew at her hairline, just to the right of centre of her forehead. She panicked and plucked it out. That afternoon, when she returned home, she hurried to the bathroom to look in the mirror. A close examination revealed that two grey hairs now grew in the spot where she had, just that morning, plucked the one.

She pulled out the two new ones, did her homework and went to the kitchen for a snack. Her mom was there, fussing over something: probably dinner, but maybe not. They visited for a while before Martie headed back to her room.

She wanted to call Sherry. Sherry was currently feuding with Elaine, and Martie wanted to catch up on the situation. She glanced at her reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of her door.

Shit! More grey hair. She peered closer at the mirror and saw four of them. Carefully, she isolated each one, wrapped them individually around her index finger and pulled them out by the roots.

Damn, this is beginning to hurt. Mom had a few grey hairs, but Mom was old. Grey hair was normal for seniors.

Martie inspected her hairline but was unable to spot any more silver. She phoned Sherry. They gossiped for almost an hour about Elaine. Martie learned that Rose was now feuding with Sherry. That was OK, though. 

Because Rose was a bitch anyway.

Martie decided to see if she could help her mom with dinner, but she glanced at the mirror again. Shit, more grey hairs? What’s going on? She left them this time, determined to hurry and ask her mother about them.

“Mom,” Martie began when she got to the kitchen.

“What’s up Mar?” her mother answered.

“Look at my hair, Mom. It’s turning grey.” Martie told her as she pointed to her hairline. “I don’t think I’m old enough to have grey hair. That’s for old people.”

“Hey,” Mom stopped her, “Hey, I’m beginning to get grey hair.

“Yeah, that’s what I mean. You’re old. I’m not.”

Martie’s mom leaned down and looked where her daughter was pointing. She studied the situation for a bit, pushing the hair around some. Finally, she sighed and said, “You might be right, Babe, but I’m not that old, and you don’t have that many grey hairs, maybe eight or so. I don’t think you need to be concerned.”

“That’s the problem though, Mom. This morning I had one. It’s been less than twenty-four hours, and now I have eight? I pulled the one I found this morning. Two grew back, and I plucked them, then there were four, and now you’re telling me there’s eight. What’s up with that?”

“You’ve been pulling them out?” Mom asked with a hint of urgency in her voice. “Don’t do that. If you pull out a grey hair, two grow back in its place. Every time you do that, you double the number of grey hairs! My mother taught me that. I thought you knew it too.”

 When she graduated from High School, Martie flipped her hair to the other side of her head. That allowed her grey streak to shine. When Principal Chavez shook her hand and gave her her diploma, he leaned in and said, “I love your hair tonight. Grow more sparkles, Martie Spencer. Brighten the world.”

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This week’s prompts are:

1. onomatopoeia as a weapon 
2. a thimbleful of coffee
3. raise a flag, I’ll tear it down

 You can start writing whenever you want, just write, get the words down – and have fun! All the best!

OLWG #270- Marathon Gas

This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”

Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.

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It was late in the day. It was full-on nighttime, dark, and probably late in 2003 or early 2004; cold outside with light snow falling on I25 northbound. I was just above Socorro and about an hour below Albuquerque, heading north on my way to Santa Fe. I felt an urge to stop and pee. I should have done that in town, but I did not know then that I needed to stop. I spotted a billboard advising a Marathon Station at the next exit.

I got off the interstate and turned left underneath the highway, as the sign had directed. The place stood almost deserted. There was one car in the lot, which I surmised belonged to the attendant and my truck. I parked and pushed through the front door. Looking around, I saw a tall thin Hispanic girl in her mid-twenties standing behind the counter, ignoring me as she smoked, surveilling the pumps and klieg lights in the parking lot in front of the store. The place sold coffee, snacks, sodas and touristy things. There was a row of creepy-looking dolls, each about two and a half feet tall, standing between me and the Men’s room. The dolls looked like they would be friends of Chucky, you know, Chucky. He was that possessed doll of cinematic fame. They creeped me out, just a little bit.

I am tough, and unflappable. Too much so to be fghtened by a satanic doll from the movies. I concentrated on where I was going and edged past the display. I ducked into the toilet. When I reemerged, those demonic friends of Chucky were still standing between me and the exit, but I managed to get safely past them. I snagged a Strawberry Cream Paleta from a freezer next to the cashier and set it on the counter. The tall thin girl who was waiting, turned toward me. She was beautiful, with slender hips, long legs, long dark hair, and a smile that lit up the night. Embroidered on her blue cotton shirt was the name Blanca.

“Good evening, Blanca,” I said, smiling and trying to catch her eye.

“I’m not Blanca, I’m just wearing her shirt,” the girl replied, her grin twisting downward, “Soy Hermosa.”

“Lo siento, Hermosa,” I smiled again and placed my Popsicle on the counter.

I wanted to talk to her more, but I was at a loss for words. Finally, I blurted out, “How do you work here at night, by yourself with those creepy dolls staring at you the whole time?”

“By watching the freeway and the lot,” she said. “Solo miro a esos tipos cuando tengo que,” she smiled and the room lit up once again.

“¿Quieres un helado, Hermosa?”

“No, gracias,” she replied, and this time when she smiled, Hermosa looked a bit like those friends of Chucky whom, I knew, stood in menacing formation right behind me.

I shrugged and considered my situation. I determined that as beautiful as she was, I might be better off leaving Hermosa alone again. Just as she had been when I found her. It seemed that her smile had become less bright, less warm, and downright scary. I threw some money on the counter and started towards the door.

“Wait, hermano,” she shouted at me.

I kept moving.

“Your change,” she explained, and I could feel her eyes glowing, burning holes between my shoulder blades.

“Keep it!” I shouted and lunged through the doors, sprinting towards my truck. Burning rubber back towards the interstate, I glanced in the rear-view mirror. The front window of the Marathon Station exploded. I noticed I was clutching the stick of my Paleta. My knuckles were white. I tossed the ice cream out onto the road and headed north.

I could not get to Santa Fe quick enough. I needed to put miles between me and that Marathon; between me and Hermosa.

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This week’s prompts are:

1. a long ago Sunday
2. it don’t mean much
3. charcoal eyes

You can start writing whenever you want, just write, get the words down – and have fun!

OLWG #269- Blue Suit

This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”

Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.

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My father had a heart attack on a midsummer Sunday morning, as he left the church service. He died wearing a charcoal grey suit, an outfit that my mother hated. The next day she went to the funeral parlour to discuss final arrangements with Mr Ballard, the funeral director.

Ballard opened the meeting by expressing his sympathies to my mother, “I’m so sorry for your loss, Ms Kerr. How long were you and your husband married?”

“He was married for over forty years. I was married only twenty-five.” She replied. “I was his second wife.”

“Have you and your late husband discussed arrangements for his obsequies?”

They had, and she relayed all of my father’s wishes to Mr Ballard. When they had discussed, understood, and agreed to all the arrangements, Ballard had one more question, “Would you like to bury him in the grey suit he was wearing when he passed?”

“No,” my mother replied, “I always thought he looked better in a blue suit. I never liked him in grey or black. The problem is that he recently gained weight and his nice blue suit is too tight. Would you have a blue suit available? I can pay for it.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Ballard sought to assuage her.

My mother and I left and returned to the house, where she got drunk and passed out. She was out of it for three days, and I took all the calls from Ballard and finalized the arrangements. On the third day, I got my mother sobered up and took her downtown for my dad’s funeral service. She was so happy to see him wearing a tasteful blue suit with fine and delicate silver pinstripes.

After the service, Mr Ballard approached my mother to, once again, convey his sympathies.

She interrupted him, “That navy blue suit you got for my husband is beautiful.” Mom gushed. “Can I write you a cheque?”

“That’s not necessary, Ms Kerr,” he told her.

“Please, I insist.”

“No, it was not a problem, and there is no extra charge due to a fortuitous circumstance that neither of us could have foreseen.”

My mother raised her eyebrows questioningly and awaited a further explanation.

“Shortly after you left my office the other day, another unfortunate man, a Mr Claeg, was brought in. He was wearing a beautiful dark blue suit. When I met with his wife, I asked if she would object to his being laid to rest wearing an elegant grey suit. She had no objections, so the situation became a simple matter of switching the heads.”

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This week’s prompts are:

1. heretics and Boy Scouts
2. nothing’s ever gonna change
3. what she’d done

You can start writing whenever you want, just write, get the words down – and have fun!

OLWG #268- key #7

This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”

Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.

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Lloyd Danner inserted his key, identified as key #7, into the Detex Watchclock Station and turned it, proving that he was making his rounds and that all was quiet in the Institute. Lloyd, the night watchman, stood outside the gallery that currently housed the Norwegian Art Group Exhibit, on loan from Oslo. Inside were works by Munch, Sohlberg, Thaulow and others.

He peered through the side light next to the door and was surprised to see someone moving stealthily inside the gallery.

It was rather dark, but he could make out who it was. He saw a tall, thin man dressed in all black. The intruder could only be Dominic Kahl; Dr. Kahl was the director of Modern and Expressionist Art at the Institute.

Softly Lloyd pushed the door open and slid into the room. He watched in silence as the figure moved across to the east wall where the works of Paul René Gauguin and Carl Frithjof Tidemand-Johannessen hung; the dark figure reached up and removed a particularly fine woodcut attributed to Paul René Gauguin, the grandson of Paul Gauguin.

Lloyd sunk back into the shadows and watched the thief. He looked down at his wristwatch, where the radium dial glowed, and noted that his shift would be over in less than thirty minutes when he would be relieved by Alec Carnagey, a recent hire at the Institute. It might be as long as forty-five minutes to an hour before Alec made it to this particular Watchclock Station again on his first round.

The beauty of the situation was apparent to Lloyd. He would testify that the gallery had been secure when he checked and the time logged on the Watchclock. If discovered tonight, an analysis would indicate the theft had occurred after Lloyd’s rounds. After his check-in on the clock, and before Alec came by next. Lloyd might catch a little heat, but as long as he stuck to his story, no one could prove a thing. Tomorrow, before his shift, he would pay a visit to the office of Doctor Dominic Kahl. They could come to an arrangement; Lloyd was sure of it.

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This week’s prompts are:

1. oh, that’s old school
2. his writing is fragmented
3. knock me a kiss

You can start writing whenever you want, just write, get the words down – and have fun!

OLWG #223- Con Motivo Del Cumpleaños De Sonya

This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”

Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.

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WHAM! Sonya swung the stick. A solid hit broke the pot hidden inside. Her friends screamed with glee, and Vero Mangos, Pico Gomas, Obleas and the like littered the ground.

Sonya pulled off her blindfold and jumped in the melee, laughing and collecting sweets.

That night, after all the “¡Feliz cumpleaños!” echoes had faded, Sonya unwrapped a lollipop and thought about what it meant to be six years old now. She smiled.

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This week’s prompts are:

1. outside Halifax
2. no god worth worrying about
3. selling truth

You can start writing whenever you want, just write, get the words down – and have fun!

OLWG #222- Missing the Rush

This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”

Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.

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“It’s about time you showed up. Get changed and get your ass back out here.” Rocket yelled as Amber slipped through the front door heading for the dressing room. Lacy was sitting on the couch wearing her costume, hot pants and nothing else.

“Evening, Lacy,” Amber greeted her.

Lacy rolled her eyes, “Rocket’s on the warpath tonight. She’s been askin’ where you are.”

“Yeah,” Amber said as she spun the old Master lock that secured her cubby (R6, L36, R16). She opened the door, pulled out and on, the copper lamé Daisy Dukes that made up her costume. “I saw her when I came in.” She tossed her “38 Special” tee shirt and jeans in her locker, on top of her purse and hurried out to the bar.

“Sorry, Rocket.”

She picked up a round tray filled with drinks that rested at the serving station, “Where do these go?”

Rocket gathered her long red hair into a ponytail and dropped it behind her back, “Table 6.”

Amber headed off and started her shift. Ferrying drinks for the punters who were watching the girls on stage. It was a night like any other night.

Well, it was like any other night until about 10:00 PM. That was when a group of salesmen took a table next to the stage where Fiesta was just beginning to flash quick glimpses of her breasts.

Amber sashayed over to the group of salesmen to take drink orders and noticed a set of keys lying on the small round table. She couldn’t help herself. Leaning over the table to provide a distraction she palmed the keys then took the orders to the bar.

“I gotta go to the ladies room,” she told Rocket, “I’ll be right back for these.”

Rocket nodded and Amber spun back towards the dressing room where she studied the keys. A small, diminutive silver coloured key was branded “Italy.” Her eyes got wide with excitement. That key might be for an Alpha Romero, she thought. Alphas were a lot of fun to drive, as long as they had a standard transmission. There was no one else in the dressing room, so she hurried over and opened her locker. For the sake of her own self-worth, she’d had to swipe that man’s keys. She changed back into her street clothes and pocketed the short chain and keys that used to belong to the gentleman by the stage.

She caught Rocket’s attention, “I need to take the rest of the night off,” she told her boss. “These cramps are killing me,” she pushed her hand to her side and grimaced.

Rocket shook her head in exasperation, “be here on time tomorrow.”

Amber nodded in affirmation.

In the lot, she looked around for an Italian motor. Right out front, she saw, under the amber glow of the sodium light, a 1973 Ferrari Dino 246GTS, gunmetal grey. She smiled, fingered the silver key in her pocket, and unlocked the driver’s side door. It had been years since she had stolen a car. She missed the rush.

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This week’s prompts are:

1. ungrateful
2. another Mr Jones
3. the colour of Kambaba Jasper

You can start writing whenever you want, just write, get the words down – and have fun!

OLWG #39- Golden Anniversary

This week’s prompts are at the bottom. The work below is practice and practice makes perfect.

Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.

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I met my sisters at the market in Cinco on the way to Mom and Dad’s. We were going to buy tons of food and surprise our parents with a 50^th anniversary gala. My oldest sister, Doreen, had made all the arrangements. She’d invited me and my younger sister, Maggie with strict instructions to meet her at Hadley’s Market in Cinco. She’d invited all our surviving aunts and uncles and secured guarantees on their participation. All my parents’ friends and neighbors had been covertly contacted and invited as well. We planned to shop and arrive at the old homestead around four o’clock this afternoon. We wanted to take it easy tonight and spend tomorrow cooking for the party. We expected guests to begin arriving about this time on the day after tomorrow.

We expected maybe fifty people so we picked up enough ingredients to make at least twelve thousand tamales. We bought fixings for margaritas along with cases and cases of Dos Equis, Mom’s favourite beer. We filled up the back of Maggie’s truck with assorted selections of meats, chiles, queso, and masa. The beer filled the back of my SUV, and Doreen loaded the margarita ingredients and lots of fresh produce in the back of her Buick. We then caravanned to Mom and Dad’s. We parked behind Dad’s ’51 panel truck along the curb in front of the house, left all the stuff in our vehicles and made our way up the steps to the front door.

I opened the screen and turned the knob. The door was locked. I didn’t carry a key to my parent’s house. I turned to my sisters and shrugged my shoulders. Turns out neither of them had a key either, so I knocked. No response. I knocked again, louder this time – still no response. I pointed at the geranium in the terra cotta pot.

“They must not be home, see if there’s a key, Maggie.” I suggested.

She nodded her head and lifted the geranium pot, “Not here, Ruben,” she said, “you want me to go around and try the back door?”

Before I could answer, I heard the shuffle of Mom’s feet hurrying to the door.

“It’s OK,” I said, “here she comes. I hear her.” I heard the chain and the rattle of the knob. The door cracked open a little and Mom, herself, peeked out at us, hiding behind the door.

“Oh…” Mom said and she looked at me and then over my shoulder at my sisters, “what are you all doing here?”

“Surprise, Mom,” Doreen said to her. “We thought we’d make tamales for you and Dad. You know, for your anniversary.”

“Hmmm,” Mom looked puzzled and her eyes danced across the three of us. “I’m so happy to see you kids,” she said, “can you all come back in about…” she glanced over her shoulder, where I knew the clock sat on the mantle, “maybe seven or eight minutes?”

“Sure, Mom,” Maggie said, “but what’s up?”

“I’m trying to spend a little bit of, um, ‘husband and wife’ time with your father. I have to take advantage of these opportunities when I can, you know. Your dad’s not a kid anymore and, well… he can’t always rise to the occasion anymore either, but today looks like it could be a good day.”

“Course, Mom.” Doreen butted in, “We’ll just hang out. You go back in and do what you need to do.” She nodded at me and Maggie, “Let’s go guys.” She said.

We turned and moved off the porch. At the curb Maggie opened the back of her truck and I grabbed some cervezas from my Bronco. Sitting on the back of Maggie’s truck, we giggled and dangled our feet over the street and Maggie opened the bottles with the latch on her tailgate. She handed ‘em out, we clinked the bottle necks together and Doreen grinned at me. “This is what you get to look forward to Ruben.”

The girls both laughed, I grimaced, and Mom came out the front door. She was pulling her terrycloth robe tight around her. “Come on in kids,” Mom said as she beckoned us toward the house. She looked a little bit disappointed but not really disappointed in us.

“You OK, Mom?” Maggie asked.

“I’m fine, baby,” Mom answered, “Dad and I’ll try again later.” She hugged each of us in turn as we filed through the door and into the house.

We stood, awkwardly in the kitchen for a few minutes, nobody really knowing what to say. Finally I spoke up, “I’ll go unload the cars.” Dad was coming down the stairs as I walked towards the door. We waved at one another, but didn’t speak. His mouth was set. Terse.

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This weeks prompts are:

1. It’s mostly true
2. we don’t make sense together
3. Derision

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Go ahead and dive in, set your imagination free!
Write something
Ready, Set, Go – you have 25 minutes, but if that is not possible, take as long as you need.

Have fun