Blasted Thing

brown thread

Photo: Susanne Jutzeler on Pexels.com

 

“Where is the blasted thing?!”

I sighed and put the textbook down. Momma never could maintain a smidgen of patience in herself.

“I’ll get it!” I rose and walked the three steps that separated my bedroom from the eat-in area. The measuring tape was exactly where she’d left it, on the dinette.

Momma was sitting on the floor not two feet from the table, one chair upended and her own legs sprawled straight out. She was wearing one of her depressing “housecoats” and a frown to match. It was uncanny how she managed to unbutton her kindly outward appearance and shed it right along with her matching sets of slacks and blouse.

My friends never did believe me that the woman who was head of PTA, mistress of all bake sales, and Lady-Of-The-Smile in charity drives and Christmas fairs, was a terror to be mothered by.

“Here, Momma.”

Her red-clawed hand reached for the tape. “And scissors? Did your pea brain stop a moment to consider I will need the scissors?”

She’d decided to reupholster the chairs. Again. Her idea of seasonal decoration.

We sat on pumpkins in the fall. On holly in the winter. On bunnies in the spring. On flags in July.

The curtains would be next.

I rummaged in the drawer for the scissors.

“Well?” She growled.

“They aren’t here, Momma.”

“Like hell they aren’t! Didn’t I tell you to never ever touch my fabric scissors? Just you wait till I’m done here!”

The threat had had some teeth to it while I was younger, and though she did not lift a hand to me since I’d grabbed hers in mine to hold her away two years ago — and she’d realized that my extension at five feet nine far exceeded her five foot three wingspan — the words themselves remained. And the possibility.

I kept my distance. Safer when she had a hammer nearby.

Something glinted underneath a corner of the pastel chintz.

“Can that be it?” I pointed.

She grumbled and reached for the scissors. “Just like you to hide it.”

“Can I get you anything else?” I knew better than to take the bait or argue. And I had a test to get back to studying for.

My ticket out, it was.

If I passed, I would be leaving.

I don’t care to where.

 

 

 

For Linda Hill’s SoCS challenge: Where

 

The Slow Cooker

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Photo by Pixabay

 

It wasn’t going to work.

Didn’t matter. She was going to make it work. Somehow.

She threw a bit of this and that into the pot and set it. She hated that slow cooker from the day he’d given it to her. Nightmare to clean.

Down at the basement, she dug out the red four-wheeler. Dragged it upstairs. Helter-skelter added in clothing, shoes, and what-not. Grabbed her purse. Almost forgot her passport. Searched for it. Panicked. Had he hidden it?

Finally found it in a shoe box. Found money, too. Keys to who knows.

On the way out, she checked the pot. Least she could do is leave a last meal.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Helter-Skelter in 111 words

 

Haphazard Town

City Lights2 SmadarHalperinEpshtein

Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein

 

One does not need a plan

To get lost

In this new town

She thought

Right before

She did.

 

 

For The Weekend Writing Prompt: Haphazard

Dedicated to my friend F.C. who at least had the wherewithal to call the local cavalry …

 

 

Tardy Times

slow low tide

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

Sometimes I know

The pace of

Tardy,

Slow but

Stubborn,

Will outwit

My best laid plans.

Goalposts redrawn.

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

Ode to Tentative

cautiosly determined OsnatHalperinBarlev

Photo: Osnat Halperin-Barlev

 

When faced with rough terrain ahead

Or uneven steps that may

Hold the potential

For plunging

Into pain

Or disruption:

Proceed with care.

Caution does not mean

Cowardice.

Bluster and bold moves do not denote

Good reason.

Determination often means

Holding on

To what railing is available

And bending down

To circumstance

So one may reach

Desired heights

Without the disservice

Of overzealous

Pride

To

Detriment.

 

 

 

 

For The Daily Post