(Photo: Jennifer Burk on Unsplash)
She was not there.
Of course, she did the work. She wiped the sinks. She did the wash. She peeled the taters. Washed the floors.
But she was not there.
Not when people stopped by. Not where there were any windows open or any blinds up.
She’d been smuggled to them as a child.
A gift.
From someone.
To the man and lady of the house.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Smuggle in 66 words
CCC #68
“This won’t do,” Marc shook his hard-hatted head and lifted the dreaded red marker to the clipboard.
Nicholas scratched under his own protective gear in effort to control his irritation. Marc’s been insufferable ever since he’d been promoted, parading with his supervisor’s paraphernalia as if it made him a demigod. For the millionth time, Nicholas wondered whether Bob The Builder — their blue coveralls donning boss — had assigned him to Marc’s team just to get back at him for the moniker. As if it was Nicholas’s fault that the man fit the cartoon character to a T.
“How come not?” he managed when the silence lingered.
“The arrow,” Marc pointed the board across the water.
“What about the arrow?!” Nicholas snarled. He almost fell, painting the darn thing while standing in a dingy.
“Pointing the wrong way,” Marc smirked in evident satisfaction. “Won’t do to go against the flow, you know.”
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge #68
The mom consulted her phone’s calendar.
“She has soccer on Mondays right after school, then she has a pre-reading tutor. Tuesday she has piano after school but I can rush her to you if you have time for a session at 5:30 or so? She’ll be a little tired and maybe hungry but I can give her dinner in the car on the way here or something. Oh, actually, next month she’ll start rehearsals for her recital. Thursdays are really difficult because she has gymnastics and then they have rehearsal training, so she won’t be able to do anything before 6pm. Maybe that’s a bit too late? Fridays she has another pre-reading class. I really don’t want her falling behind. Maybe I can bring her to you after … though she has some playdates scheduled next month. Saturday she does ice-skating. …” Looked up. Sighed, “Do you work Sundays?”
The little girl is not yet five.
For The Daily Post
Mary Poppins said it best (and had the magic touch and all the rest …)
So I am off to find the fun …
In all the jobs that must be done …
And if I meet some trouble
Encounter bitterness, or feel a rapidly incoming frown,
I will attempt a spoonful of sugar — I hear it helps the medicine go down …
A boy, age 4, stating proudly: “When I grow up I’m going to be just like my daddy. I’m going to put ties on by my whole self and a suit and I’m going to have a (sic) iPad and two iPhones even three and be busy and go to work everyday …”
He pauses, and a little frown climbs up his young forehead … He takes a breath, and continues, a little less enthusiastically: “yeah, I’m going to go to work …”
He pauses again, reconsiders. Looks up at me, a tad concerned. “Can grownups go to work and … um … play?”
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