In The Block

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(Photo: SHOT on Unsplash)

 

She had a thing for giving names. To things.

It was her personal nomenclature.

The house’s door was “Lettie”… for letting her inside the home.

The bed was “Sleeping Beauty” … for some very long dreams.

Her knife set she called “Sharpenado.” In it was “Sharpenado-The-First”, “Sharpenado-The-Second”, “Sharpenado-Junior”, and even “Sharpenado Senior” … the oldest of the bunch. Like her, it was retired and allowed to spend the rest of its dull days in the block.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Nomenclature in 76 words

 

Nailed It

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Photo: Crispina Kemp

 

He could never abide a wiggle.

Not a wriggle. Not a waver. Not the smallest bit of leeway.

Give an inch they’ll want a mile. He was one for nipping any jiggle in the bud.

Sure, the place was old, but it was built a-sturdy, and it stood the test of time. A war. A drought. A famine. Years could lend a touch of wrinkle, but that was no excuse for creaky hinges or a swinging that was anything but right.

Doors should no more need replacing than the people who had built them. Neither ought be done away with when they’re ripe.

So at the very start of wobbling, he cut a bar to measure, took the hammer and the odd-and-ends crate, and firmly nailed the wood across the geriatric slats.

Not unlike the way the surgeon had patched his hip and clinched his femur on to that.

 

 

 

For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge