I was first in line at our local precinct for early voting. In this climate of hateful repressions, it is best to get your vote in as soon as possible.
To escape the mess our country is making of the world, I escape into drawing and writing. The Dancing Rat page is finished along with the poem to go with it.
The Dancing Rat
The Dancing Rat has come to town
amid the leaves, all falling down.
Kicking up heels as he slides along,
he waves his arms while singing a song.
Children come running soon as they hear
to toss him some coins and loudly cheer.
The Dancing Rat collects what he can
with his trusted tool shaped like a hand.
When all the money is safe in his sack
he gives a low bow, then turns his back.
And travels on further down the road
toward the Old Pub to lighten his load.
Probably will work on the poem some more to smooth it out, but you get the idea….
Earlier this week when Trump firmly turned his back on Ukraine, I went online to check out a charity called, White Stork. It furnishes first aid packages to soldiers on the front lines. I donated several hoping to save some of the bloodshed inflicted by Russia via the United States and Elon Musk. Our promises mean very little to the world now. Trust will come back slowly, if at all.
When I wake in the morning, I see this first thing on the night stand.
Then glancing up, this, questioning when I will move over to make room and say, “Good Morning.”
There is not much else new this week. Pretty much staying by myself. I need to get back to writing more pieces for the book about Letters. And in between some additional 100 word fiction pieces. The following one is the first in a series that will all be 100 words and have stairs be a main part of the story. I think dollhouse stairs will be next. Did I tell you that 100 word fiction pieces are called, “drabbles”? Isn’t that dumb! Why not simply “100 Word Story”? Anyway, I only brought this one dreamed up over Bloody Marys to life because I loved the three main characters almost as much as the dusty shelf of canned peaches. My lunch companion took all my words and extra characters to write her own version of what happens next. But this was enough of a story for me.
Stair Stories No. 1 S. Webster
The best hatreds take time and nurturing, then only seconds to let go.
A minute passed since George pulled his eyes away from the computer to watch his mother fall. With her arms flailing past the dust-covered shelves of canned peaches, she gasped her last breath. It was followed by the thud of her soft excessive weight landing not five feet from his chair.
Looking up from the twisted body, he saw Aunt Agnes at the top of the stairs.
Peering into the darkness she was saying, “Well now, that was a nasty fall.”
“Shouldn’t we call someone?”
“I already have.”
the end
Well, that’s all I have for this week…and I can hear a sigh of relief coming through the internet. Next week will be better. At least let’s hope so.
Right now I am fighting a sudden urge to cut my hair with manicure scissors, pour a stiff drink before checking in the mirror, and drawing on eyebrows that have disappeared somewhere in the last ten years. Then I remember seeing someone recently who did that and is looking like a character out of a Stephen King story. I am talking about the eyebrows here. Not the odd haircut. And it is hard in an elderly neighborhood to tell who has had a stiff drink.
Obviously time to sign off.
Til later….