The stories are coming in to the July Wordsmiths challenge, and they're a bunch of doozies, if I do say so myself. On Wednesday the list of tales will be posted, but you should always feel free to go to the Wordsmiths homepage and troll through the comments to pop over to a writer's page. You won't be disappointed - there's quite the crop of talented folks out there making their 500 words work for them.
And BTW - There's still time to write your story, you know.
My house tried to eat me a few days ago.
Let's just say that one glass front door, one weakly functioning pneumatic door-propper-opener thingie, and the heel of one bare foot can combine in flesh-rippingly painful ways. The vicious impact was at once stunning and only a harbinger of the pain that pulsated for a full ten minutes, and it was all I coud do to not spout a stream of bad-wordage in front of my Mom and kids immediately after the blow and for the full pain experience. I entertained myself by watching the blood well from the deep gash, which seemed to dampen the pain experience somewhat, if only to replace it with nausea.
In addition, while mowing the lawn yesterday with my electrical mower (it is NOT a toy, no matter what you might think), I had to move the cord, as you can imagine takes place with grating regularity. I bent, I heard a snappy wet rip in my lower back, and, because I was alone in the back yard, I DID let loose with a torrent of bad-wordage while trying to use my hands against my thighs to force myself into an upright position.
At that pont, what do you think I did? That's right, I proceeded to try to continue with the mowing, because I wouldn't like my neighbors to think me a lazy slob of a woman who intends to leave her yard to overgrow in an exhuberant flow of snakegrass and wild violet, but I was soon unable to place one foot comfortably in front of the other and abandoned the mower and 150 feet of extension cord (that bastard!) in the middle of yard in order to go inside and sink awkwardly into a kitchen chair, from which spot I doubted I would be able to arise again unless pressed and pressed HARD.
It was my bladder that pressed hard enough, eventually, to make me rise and wince at the full realization of how badly it hurt to stand. Then I realized, dearlord, that I still had to take the Things to WalMart for back to school shopping, and I have to say that it's at that point that I started to get a little upset. How the hell was I going to do THAT when I couldn't even stand long enough without pain to go PEE? Tears may have been shed, and there may have been a tiny portion of pouting and "poor me-ing," which is understandable but would not get the shopping done.
Well, with 800 mg of ibuprofen in me and by grinding 5 years of wear and tear off my teeth, I managed not only to GET to Wlly WOrld, but to endure the shopp-age. It was not handled terribly gracefully, however. At one point I actually stopped in the office supplies aisle and cried.
I'm sure this will not scar my children for life. No, not at ALL. Riiiight. I can hear the story being retold 20 years from now: "remember how much Mom used to HATE going back to school shopping? Man, she'd cry in the WalMart in the binder aisle, and damn if that didn't just turn me right off of school altogether and onto a life of crime. Sure am glad you're in the pen with me bro, or it'd be a much lonlier place."
So, there's that. I've scarred my kids for life. Well, if not life, then for 8 to 10 with time off for good behavior. Sure hope they come see me in the convalescent hospital on their stints between terms. I'll be the one unable to stand without crying, just for old times' sake.
While at the WalMart yesterday a little kid passed out while waiting to check out.
There was much shouting and excitement, which at first I thought were irate shoppers cussing out a line-cutter, but which soon were recognizeable as pure panic hollerin' with liberal use of "call 911!" thrown in. Oh, it was a heady scene, with concerned citizens manning the cell phones in compliance with the panicked orders, with a crowd a-gatherin', with helpful suggestions like "get a bag of ice!", with me patently IGNORNING the scene, surrounded in my own misery and unable to take interest or twisted pleasure in the derailing of someone else's day.
Yes, the pain was that bad. I did, however, have the Things report to me on the activity that was happening over my left shoulder as I hunched over the cart, using it for support of fully half my body weight (for to stand up on my own was to risk snapping half by that point. The 30-minute wait in line was slowly killing me with all the standing).
I am pleased to announce that there was no blood, the kid could move after a few minutes of lying stone-cold quiet on the floor, and that EMS came and hauled him off on a guerney, with his Mom and several nervous siblings (or maybe cousins) in tow. Thing One was shooting out theory after theory about what might have happened, and by the time we were passing the EMS van out front he was working on a fairly solid premise of hunger leading to fainting which resulted in concussion, unconsciousness, and subsequent shock. My little "House"; I am so proud of his budding diagnostic skills.
Anybody ever seen anything like that happen in a public place? This was a first for me, and can remain the last. I don't need that kind of excitement at the WalMart.
That's all for today y'all. I've got to go prepare to hobble to the ladies room. This might take a while.