October Wordsmiths

The Red White and Blue Festival in Cedarton was on again. This was a highlight of every year, with banners and tents flapping in the brisk late-summer breeze, the smell of fried dough and the sounds of the town band and clean little children’s laughter carried on the same breeze.

There was always a breeze, it seemed.

So too, there was always one person in town who refused to come in the required color-coded dresswear. This year, it was Jason McWilliams in his bright orange tee shirt jangling the view down Main Street. Nobody was surprised. Last year Jason’s older brother wore green, the year before his cousin Abby wore purple (and tried to pass it off as ‘a mix of red and blue’). The McWilliams family were trouble, all right.

But the people of Cedarton knew how to deal with troublemakers. They left it to the Raches.

Annie and Grace Rache were in charge of Behavior at the fair, indeed, they were in charge of Behavior year round. As the most powerful pair in Cederton, it was their beholden duty to keep the town in line, and over the years had suceeeded in spectacular fashion. The folks of Cedarton knew what was expected of them, expecially the folks who’d been around a generation or two. They told stories of behind-the-barn beatings of people who shunned the Rache Plan, beatings adminstered by Annie herself when she was younger, and now by Amos, their handyman (and some would say Grace’s son). The Rache sisters were ever-present in town, seeing all, like small-town Gods in their omniscience. They knew everything, and heaven help you if you crossed their invisible line.

This year, as the aging Rache sisters toddled along Main Street in their crisp white and blue togs, Grace was very excited. This year Behavior lessons were to be taken from behind the barn and brought to the public. Therefore, Grace had been hooked into the Cedarton police radio by virtue of a small mic hidden between her mountainous breasts, a ‘gift’ from Officer Joe, who knew better than to say no. He also knew better than to say no when Grace asked for his ‘help’ at the fair.

And now, the game was on. Linking arms, the Sisters crossed the street (the first sign), Grace alerting Joe of the young malfactor’s whereabouts.

The unmarked SUV pulled out.

Annie flicked her cane, the second sign.

Grace whispered the code word.

The driver’s side window of the SUV rolled down. A slim dark cylinder slid out.

Grace nodded.

A shot rang out.

Jason crumpled to the ground, his jarring orange shirt sporting a growing red stain.

That’ll teach him, said Grace.

Yes, yes it will, said Annie.

And the people of Cedarton walked around Jason as he cried on the sidwalk, dabbing at the paintball smear and the blooming blue bruise on his chest.

Those McWilliamses are trouble, but in Cedarton, they know how to deal with troublemakers. Just call the Raches.

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You can write on too! Go to Wordsmiths Unlimited to find out how to play along.

Oh Dear God...what you all have done

THIS is what you people voted for as the next Wordsmithsunlimited story prompt.

What's the next Wordsmiths prompt? Selection Votes A happy aliigator 19% 5 An upside-down duckling 15% 4 A painting with religious overtones 19% 5 A set of emo bath hardware 15% 4 The spidersuit lady that my Mom thought was me. 33% 9 27 votes total

What is WRONG with y'all? Yeesh!

;)

Thanks to all who took the time to click over and vote. I have to say that it was a load off my mind, the not having to make a decision thing...

So then - now that you've voted, why not consider writing? It's 500 words of pure fun, after all.

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Drum sander, belt sander, orbital sander.

My favorite is the orbital. It's not as scary as the drum sander, and it doesn't require cowboy-like skillz to wrangle like the belt sander. My ARMPITS hurt from the wrangling, y'all, and I didn't even do that much of it!

Or maybe it was from the paint scraping, or tennis-ing. Anyhow - armpit pain is SO not good. Makes languorous stretches most difficult indeed.

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The puppy is beginning to answer to "Nibbler." He is also the laziest damn dog on the face of this earth. Is it normal for a puppy to sleep 22.5 hours a day?

Also, I'm still waiting for him to wag his tail, just once. This is not so much of a happy-go-lucky pooch (can puppies be autistic? If so, I think I have one. If not, we'll just call him 'antisocial'), and so the wagging is still not a milestone. DO puppies even wag their tails? When he runs around in the backyard he's all smiley and the tail is straight up, but once he comes back inside it's tail down and he's looking for a place to go to sleep.

Sigh....I was SO hoping for a cuddly bouncy puppy, and I got one for whom the perfect day would be spent in the apartment next to Greta Garbo.

TELL me he'll be OK, won't you?

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Another thing - how is it that when a 10-pound cat sleeps on your head, he feels like he weights 50 pounds?

Albert decided that my cranium would make the BESTEST EVER sleeping spot early this a.m., and I awoke to a head bedecked with hot pussy.....uh....cat. My skull was practically being crushed under the weight of the adoring feline, causing me to have some very strange 'just before awakening' type dreams involving large hats and handcuffs. Not even the GOOD kind of handcuff dream, either.

So, sleeping with the bedroom door open? Never again.

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That's all for today folks - have to git into work to grind my nose a little further as grist for the mill of productivity.

Mmmm, nose grist. Hey - Isn't that what they call 'boogers' in the old country?

Wordsmiths for March

So here it is, edited and with a dab of polish added for good measure. Did the rework make it better or worse?

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Lies You Should Believe

The first lie she told me was about what awaits at the end of a rainbow. She told me my Da was a dreamer, that his addled drunk mind made up stories of faeries and pots of gold to fool himself into thinking his dumb luck would save him one day. Her face under the wimple was pinched, her breath smelled of naptha. She asked God to help me rid myself of foolishness and dreams, her hands trembled against the beads as a false tear slid down her doughy cheek.

But my Da had never lied to me, and so I hated her.

God help her, I thought, that she didn’t know the ways of wise folk, the twitching of the spines of magickal ones, that she couldn’t see beyond the convent walls to the other sparkling worlds created by her God. Her loss that she didn’t believe there was a pot of gold at the end of every rainbow, not mine.

I knew the pot was there because Da had told me. He’d told me that the gold waited just beyond the horizon of the unbelievers, the weak, and faithless. He told me that any simple carnyman herding a Ferris Wheel could tell you the same, that the gold was waiting at the end of the rainbow, slick and wet with sundew, a small watchman guarding it against the ignorant or wicked.

The gold waited there as sure as a strong breeze would come after a hot spell. My Da, a carny for life, said it was as sure as the great Wheel would stop at the top of the sky for each car in its turn, canting against gravity, throwing fate together with fortune and, if you were lucky, a willing seatmate.

My Da knew. He told me. He tried to tell her too, but she is a nun, and nuns can’t be trusted with one single bit of secret. Their tongues wag even when there’s nothing to say, genuflecting against teeth with threats and gossip.

My Da didn’t tell her the secret, though he did tell me after Ma passed on. He told me the secret so simple that a dullard could have dreamt it during an afternoon’s nap. That nun would never have believed it.

Her first big lie was only the start, but it’s what sent me to packing. Now, I’m leaving. When I drop to the ground outside this window, when she finds the spoons I used to dig through this convent’s wall, when I hear her wails of anger come from under her hot bleak cape, it’ll be her day to rue, not mine.

Sure, the secret itself is simple if you believe it to be true. The dicey bit is first deciding which end of any rainbow is the start, and which is the beginning. The big secret is that what’s the middle is what makes the riches. It’s the journey, not the end, that makes the search worthwhile.

Peak of Perfection

For the February Wordsmiths challenge:

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Mother says “Moidrak has called you, and you’re about to go on a wonderful journey. You’re going to take the Cup of Consecration, and then we can begin.”

I have heard this before, many times, yet because it is now my name being spoken in the invocation, the words have a resonance I’d never heard before. The call to ultimate service is a warm whisper of eternal life, eternal love, eternal adoration, real and beautiful as the rosettes on the ceiling of the convent’s vast kitchens, and I am glad to answer.

Getting to the Table of Covenant had not been easy for a girl like me, born in the gutter, raised as a maid, culled from the herd of orphans by the Mother Immaculate herself to service. Mother had told me that the light in my eyes spoke of great things, and so it seems she was right. It’s not every day a nobody like me gets to be Grafted. Graftees are normally rich women, old and venerated, ready to give the rest of their lives to the service of Moidrak, not some milk-pale firm-hipped kitchen whelp like me.

And yet. Here I am, on the Table of Supplication, getting Grafted. The needles sting as they dip into my arms. My tears are joyful.

“Nia, sleep.”

So I do.

“Nia, it is over. You must now concentrate on being very very still or the Graft will not take. All your years of service will be for nothing. You don’t want that, do you”? the Mother’s voice beseeches me, calming as a stream.

No, I do not want that. The pain in my eyes is immense, but the Drugs of Obedience and Veneration keep me quiet and my limbs immovable, even though there is rebellion and fear in me. Moidrak has promised I will surmount this if I am a true Graftee. This is what I want more than life itself, and so I heal myself through sleep.

And awaken. My eyes still cannot open.

The world feels strange. Its seems like up is down. There is weight on my cheeks, my belly sags, the Graft line tugs a million prickles in my skin. I cannot see. I sleep.

“Nia, it is time.” Mother’s voice echoes. I awaken, longing to stretch my arms and legs, but suffering against the body in service to Moidrak is the fondest of wish of all Graftees, so I am lucky.

Nurses open my eyes with tiny snip of scissors to the Sacred Threads. That is all. There will be no more release. I open my eyes, afraid and excited. I am a Graftee now. Success.

Mother is so small from up here. I can hear voices of venerated old women whispering welcome. I am pressed to the ceiling, the starflung centerpiece of the glittering temple peak, my eyes the center of the Four Arcs of Solchar, my body the invitation to heaven.

Not bad for a girl from the gutter. Not bad at all.