The Road

Bruno. C. / Art Photos / CC BY 

Skinny legs pumping, Amelia

Rode up covered in dust. 

I worry ‘bout this child. 

I’s her mama. That’s what we do.

Her eyes gentled me. "Mama,

This just the beginnin' of the road."

Written for Trifextra: Week Fifty-One at Trifectra. The challenge: write exactly 33 words using one of the three pictures provided. I chose this haunting portrait.
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Idle Hands

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The story below is my first entry to the Trifecta Writing Challenge.

The challenge is to write a 33-to-333 word response to a prompt using the third definition of the prompt word. This week's prompt is "idle."

IDLE

1: lacking worth or basis : vain

2: not occupied or employed: as

    a : having no employment : inactive

    b : not turned to normal or appropriate use

    c : not scheduled to compete

3: a : shiftless, lazy

    b : having no evident lawful means of support

Idle Hands

 Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop.

That was Mam’s favorite, the one she kept right in the front of her over-stuffed mental filing cabinet of Life Lessons where it was handy when needed.

I’ve fought Mam’s homilies all my life, and won the battle with most of them. I no longer worry if my underwear is clean enough – should I be hit by a bus, don’t you know – or feel like I’m at death’s door if I miss my daily apple.

 But idle hands thing? I just can’t seem to silence Mam’s ominous-sounding warning, and it scares the daylights out of me. I guess it must be the Devil’s personal vested interest in any pause my hands may take that makes it so terrifying. I picture him there, hovering, just waiting to swoop in and seize my tarnished soul the minute my hands stop doing, doing, doing.

And, oh, the things I’ve done to keep him at bay. I raised children and kept house. I cooked and baked. I gardened. I painted and threw very lop-sided pots. I crocheted and macraméd. And as I grew older and my hands less dexterous, I knitted. And knitted.

I knitted Christmas and birthday gifts and presented them to my family and friends. I knitted baby blankets and caps, and donated them to hospitals. I knitted scarves and hats, and took them to homeless shelters. And I knitted mittens, endless pairs of mittens. I knitted so many mittens that I can no longer find anyone who will take them. I have the grandest wardrobe of mittens any old lady could want.

My hands are gnarled with age now, unable to wield the knitting needles anymore. I know the Devil is just there, a step behind me, preparing to claim his prize.

At least my idle hands will be warm while I wait.

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The Man in the Wood

Are you real?

I glance your way

And catch you

Staring back

With an intensity

That scares me,

And makes me want

To beg your pardon.

Where Am I?

It occurs to me that perhaps I should tell you why you're not seeing me around much. No, I haven't fallen into a black hole. Nor have I run away from home, though I have been tempted from time to time.

For the first time, I am attempting NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). It's a daunting prospect, but friends have done it, and they survived. I'm taking heart from that.

It's day five of this thirty-day challenge to write 50,000 words before the month is done. I'm already behind. According to the NaNoWriMo gizmo that one uses to keep track of progress, at my current rate, I'll finish on December 6. Not good. But I also know that of the 256,618 participants (worldwide) in 2011, 36,843 of them crossed the 50K finish line by the deadline. So I won't be alone if I don't make it.

Anyway, this is where I am, and why I'm not coming around to visit much. I'm sitting at my computer, plugging away on my great American novel, which is currently called "Untitled." Wish me luck!

See you in December.

Grace

My fall from grace was 
unexpected.It hurt like the 
devil; I can tell you that.

With the flick of a finger

and careless aim, you sent me

flying from the promised land

like an inconvenient crumb

sullying the surface of your life.

Through no fault of my own,

penance paid or so it seemed,

redemption came today.

Angels sang and golden

rays shone from the heavens

as, with nary a trumpet, the 
pearly gates cracked open 
with the dawn. Hallelujah.

Once again, I was saved.

Or was it doomed? Because 
then I discovered you wanted  
something. Figures.

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Linked at dVerse Poets Pub.

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Self-Portrait

big feet, big butt,

bigger mouth, 

that's what he said.

that's OK, I told him.

I've got a good under-

standing, a well-seated

position, and the ability

to make my opinion heard.

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Linked to dVerse Poets Pub

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Bird on the Run

I taught them how to read and write.

I showed them how to spell.

I helped them count from one to ten,

  And sang to them as well.

 

Romney says my goose is cooked,

My time has come and gone.

I guess it’s time to fly the coop.

Kids, I think you're on your own.

(Source: AP Photo)

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Linked to Friday Flash 55, hosted by G-Man at Mr. KnowItAll.
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