And He answered and said unto them, "I tell you that, if these should hold their peace, the stones would immediately cry out."

Thursday, December 19, 2013

Three Word Wednesday 121913

Find the instructions for Three Word Wednesday here.

Here goes:

Combative, adjective: Ready or eager to fight; pugnacious.

Represent, verb: Be entitled or appointed to act or speak for (someone), esp. in an official capacity; of a competitor) participate in a sports event or other competition on behalf of (one's club, town, region, or country; be an elected member of a legislature for (a particular constituency, party, or group); constitute; amount to; depict (a particular subject) in a picture or other work of art.

Sluggish, adjective: Slow-moving or inactive; lacking energy or alertness; slow to respond or make progress. 

After Work
by C. Deanne

"My feet hurt. My back hurts. I can hardly move." He threw his hat on his chair with a sigh.

"How was your day?" Her back and feet hurt too, but she said nothing about them. She followed him into their small bedroom and closed the door behind them.

"I don't know why you still do that. There's no one around that would peak in on us." He took off his jacket and threw it into the hamper just beside their bed. She picked it up and put it on a plastic hanger.

"This is wet. Give me your pants and I'll hang them downstairs in the basement where they can dry. Would you like some tea?" She waited for him to hand her his pants.

"It's not like anyone appreciates me. Wait, that's not exactly true, is it? I am only appreciated at certain times of the year. But even then, they just want more, more, more from me. Just once. Just one time, it would be nice for someone to say thank you."

"Hand me your pants." She watched as he whipped his damp trousers on the top of the hamper. "You know, you are always a little cranky when you get home. I can deal with cranky but the last few years, you've been downright pugnacious. Like you are waiting for me to start something. Well, I won't. We're getting too old for this conversation. I'll wait while you change into your pajamas."

"I am not a child. I'll wear what I want where I want." He almost growled as he took off  his socks, then his long underwear, then his white t-shirt. "Just give me my tea by my chair."

"Your pajamas are in the top drawer. I bought you new ones. Blue fleece, just the way you like it."

"I hope you used your 30% discount." He opened the drawer and the handle came off in his hand. "Oh, my--Really? This has to happen now, of all nights."

"We'll fix it in the morning. Put the bottoms on and go sit in your chair." Her arms were full of his damp clothes. She took the belt that he had put on the bed.

"Stop standing over me and get out of my way," he said as his eyes narrowed in anger. Early in their marriage she would scurry out of the way. Too many years had passed so she stood her ground
without a word. Finally, she heard his weary and defeated sigh. "Come on. I want to sit down. I'm tired."

She stood in front of the door. There was no where for him to move as the bed took up almost all of the room.

"I'm sorry, alright? It's been a long night."

She left the room without a word and walked down the stairs to their little laundry room. She could hear him shuffling across the room, sluggish and slow, to his favorite recliner next to his favorite lamp and table. The jacket was hung on the hanger. The pants were pinned to the line. She let the belt hang next to it to keep everything together.

The stairs were getting tougher each year. Her knees ached. This would be the year she would ask him to put the washer and dryer on the first floor. But that would come later and after he fixed the drawer pull.

He already sat with the chair reclined all the way back and his feet dangled.

"Where are your slippers? Your feet will get cold."

"I dunno. So tired, hon."

She found them by the front door and put them on his feet. "Come on, Pudge. Get off the blanket. Daddy needs this more than you."

"This is nice. Is it new? Pudge seems to--oh" His face softened as their cat jumped into his lap. "I'm sorry I snapped at you. It's just that it's so demanding this time of year. I love my job. I really do, but sometimes, I'm so tired of being taken for granted."

"Your job is hard and you will always be taken for granted. But look what you bring. A little bit of magic. A little bit of mystery. The hope that there is still some good left out there. People have forgotten what you represent or rather Who. And each year, people forget a little bit more."

"It's all about giving, they say, but it's really about the getting." He rubbed his hands over his face.

"There are merchants who want folks to believe that, Claus. But there are so many who know. That there is hope. That there is still a little good left in the world. And that giving doesn't need to be selfish and that receiving takes a little bit of humility. You remind them, Santa." She kissed his forehead. His eyes were already closed and he snored softly.

The tea kettle sang in the kitchen.~

Copyright 2013, All Rights Reserved

Thursday, April 11, 2013

Keep feeling Procrastination

I haven't been writing much in a long time. Maybe it's depression. Mostly it's fear and procrastination. I'm still stuck on an early, early piece. I just want to finish it. That's all. Just to finish something.

I read that there are people who can just write a novel at the drop of the hat. Short stories are much easier for me. Maybe that's the key. Write in short story sequences.

I read a book this year where the author did just that. I liked it. So maybe.

Sunday, March 10, 2013

Sunday Scribblings # 300 Instinct

She reached for the dark blend. The can was large, red and metal, chilly in the early morning.

She turned on the radio and in that moment she forgot. She quickly turned the volume down until it was barely audible. She did not want to wake him. Lifting up the red, plastic lid was the first delight of the process. She loved to smell the roasted aroma. It smelled of her parents and their percolator.

When she was a girl she loved the smell of coffee. Once she got a haircut at a woman's house. In her basement, the older woman had a little bowl of Coffee Nips. The mysterious candy was wrapped in gold cellphane and crinkled when she unwound the ends. She let it melt slowly in her mouth and felt grown up and exotic and powerful, even while she swung her legs in the big chair.

She hugged the can close. Then the sandy, sharpness of the scoop. Then tiny pebbles against the paper liner. The gurgle of the water. The steam. The promise of the new day.

Her feet cemented themselves in the middle of the kitchen floor and she felt herself breath. The clock gave her 10 minutes before she had to get in the shower and start her quiet routine. It was all so different then she imagined. She was living in their house. She was going to work 9 to 5. She was stuck in the same town where she grew up. Where was the challenge? Where was the glamour standing around in two year old fuzzy slippers?

His alarm went off and she heard rather than saw him turn over. The bed frame was nearing twenty years old and she knew that sound. And the creak on the floor of the side of his bed. Heavy steps and the door shutting at the top of the stairs.

The flyer by the banana holder caught her eye. Imagine going to college at her age with students old enough to be her children. More doors opening and closing as her kids dragged themselves out of their beds. Their hateful alarm prodding them to greet a chilly Monday morning.

Her precious ten minutes were almost gone.

She grabbed the flyer, crumpled it and opened the lid to the trash. With a deep breath, she let the lid fall and shoved the tri-fold paper in her purse. Perhaps it was because it was October. Or a Monday. Things were slowing down at work and there was talk of layoffs. Again. She had the audacity, the blessing, to start her own new normal. The coffee was hot and promising. Her instinct told her it was time for a small act of faith.


For more creative stories, visit Sunday Scribblings.

Thursday, February 28, 2013

Magpie Tales 157

Overheard at the Museum

What. Is That?

It's by Salvador Dali. It says it's Venus di Milo

With drawers. I can read. What is this guy, like 9 years old? Look where he put the two drawers--


Are you shushing me?

Yes. You're supposed to be quiet.

Quiet? This statue has fuzz balls for handles. Why fuzz balls? Don't they have Home Depot where Salvador Dali comes from?

He's dead.

Didn't they have Home Depot before he died? Builder's Square? Handy Andy? Surely, there was an Ace Hardware.

(The couple giggle. The guard gives them a look, which makes them laugh harder.)

It's existential. It's absurd.

Yes, it is.

No, it's a style. He painted pictures of watches melting.

He got paid. For that too?

He's a very famous artist.

I don't like this.

You don't have to. It's art. It's supposed to make you think.

I think I'm in the wrong line of work.

Come on. Try to open yourself to new experiences.

(He stares at her and takes her hand. They walk to the painting on the wall next to the statue.)

Brilliant Yellow #9. It's drywall--

It's canvas--

It's painted yellow. With a black frame.

Baer was primarily interested in using painting as a vehicle for exploring the complexities of visual perception. From 1963 to 1975, she limited her "imagery" to bands of black combined with colors at the edges of the canvas as a means of emphasizing the essential, objectlike qualities of painting.

(He kisses her hand.) Only for you would I miss the Sox opener.

It's not the Home Opener.

Potato. Po-tah-toe.

Theme Thursday - Wonder

I stood on the pier
It sank lower
Then pink
Watercolor fade to blue

People with strollers
People with lovers
People with friends and family
People fishing
People walking

Did they miss this miracle in the sky?

I wonder.

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

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