Category Archives: Writing

#storycontinues roundup (21-27 november)

It just figured — no, she mustn’t think about the dust or she’d sneeze. Then Mama and Uncle Peter or the Great Auntie would hear and she’d be in trouble.

The floor, the floor, think about the floor. Though she had done this several times in the past, she was still surprised at how cold and hard the tile floor was on her bare legs.

“Achoo!”

She slapped a hand over her mouth in shock. Had anyone heard?

Sophia sucked in a quick, quiet breath and waited, heart pounding ferociously in her ears as she counted slowly in her head. After three counts of three hundred, when she could hear clearly again, she risked a peek out from under the tablecloth.

#storycontinues roundup (14-20 november)

Surely Mary Mae or one of her girls cleaned under here. Why, she’d hidden under this very table just last week and it wasn’t half so dusty then. It wasn’t like they’d had a dust storm or anything like that, just the regular folk coming and going.

Well, maybe she and the boys had traipsed through the hall that afternoon covered in dust and dirt after playing hangmen. They didn’t have enough rope to play properly …

We’d best be thanking the Lord for that!” Mary Mae had told Mama before shoving them all into the big bathtub behind the kitchen.

… but they’d had fun rolling around on the ground pretending. Later, after supper, she had noticed all the dust was gone, all swept away.

Sophia wrinkled her nose and moved her legs gingerly. So this is where the dirt went. Yuck.

a working man’s work

Sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he lifted his head from under the hood. Squinting in the bright sun, he could just barely see a speck further down the road that might be another car, might be coming his way. Likely so, anyway. This was the last stop for most drivers venturing out into the desert and first stop for those coming out.

People from town came here too, though, wanting their cars fixed. Best mechanic around, they claimed. Not for much longer, he snorted, not if …

He shook himself. No time for foolishness. Got to get this transmission fixed, do a few more tune ups and whatever that pretty little Camaro that just pulled in needed.

A working man’s work is never done.

texas, 1959

a morbid little drabble; don’t know where this came from

***

The sound of the typewriter key striking paper had a singular finality to it. Done, it was done.

Finished.

There was nothing left to do but gather the rest of his memoirs and have them sent to his agent. The publishers were eagerly awaiting the manuscript, according to their last letter. It was sure to be a best seller, they said. An editor and copy editor had been selected, too; they would work out any changes, if needed, with his mother.

He smiled. By this time tomorrow, he wouldn’t care.

It was 1959. This was Texas.

The chair beckoned.

#storycontinues roundup (7-13 november)

Just then a soft banging sound came from above. Muttering followed, and she scurried past the front door and around the display table, flipping back the long tablecloth and crawling underneath.

Her eyes strained in the near dark under the table. Everything was hazy here; the cloth that draped almost to the floor was surprisingly hard to see through for something so lacy, and it distorted everything. Only the front door was clearly visible. She squinted and could just barely make out the parlor door in the gloom.

It was also unexpectedly dusty under the table. Sophia stifled a sneeze and tried to focus on something else.

#storycontinues roundup (31 october — 6 november)

Three deep, ragged breaths later, she started inching down the stairs. Mama and Uncle Peter’s voices were muffled now, and she thought it likely they had stepped out onto the terrace that led into the rose garden. If so, she could cross the hall in relative safety and cut through the dining room to the kitchen and take the back stairs to get back to the boys.

Maybe she’d sneak a few honeycakes while she was there. Maybe.

As she stepped off the bottom stair, Sophia risked a glance through the open parlor door. She decided if caught she’d say she had a nightmare, but quickly realised it was unnecessary. Mama and Uncle Peter were nowhere to be seen.