“Sid must have hit a dead zone,” I thought after the dropped call. Waiting a minute, I punched in “7” when a string of “z’s” suddenly zoomed across the screen. I pushed the “home” icon, but the z’s changed to “y’s” until a sentence stuttered its message.
“Y-y-y-o-u-r c-c-c-c-a-l-l-e-r i-s-s-s d-d-d-d-e-a-d!”
Nothing could hide it. Not her perfect page-boy or her expensive dresses. My friend said the roof of her mouth was missing. That’s why she drooled all over herself. That’s why we couldn’t understand anything she said.
Not that she talked to us.
But we didn’t talk to her either.
The two giggled as they struggled to slip pajamas onto uncooperative 18-inch dolls. Joy reigned until both grabbed for the flannel mini-robe.
“It’s mine!”
“No! Gramma gave it to me.”
Tears.
“They usually play well together.” The care-giver observed.
“Sisters?” asked her new assistant.
“Mother and daughter. Eighty-eight and sixty-nine.”
Note: Because I have absolutely NO challenges in my life, and because I have little to do, I decided to bring on some craziness as I am SO sane and all. To jazz up my days, my writing, and my attempt to stave off Alzheimers, I registered with NaBloPoMo AGAIN. How could I not? The theme is FICTION!
To place time constraints on this project, I decided to play around with 50-word Fiction/Stories. I may scrimp on the word-count, but hopefully not on creativity. Let me know what you think. About the stories; NOT my mental condition.
Why didn’t I take Family Home Evenings seriously? Especially nights when Mom
72-Hour Kit ~ aka Bug-Out or Blow-Out Bags
produced giant garbage bags and begged us to organize 72-hour kits.
B-O-R-I-N-G.
I thought Mormons did this for “fun.” And to prepare for IMPROBABLE catastrophes.
Wrong-o.
I didn’t know about the Zombie Apocalypse. Why didn’t Mom mention that?
SOME things never change. Mom still can't drive a van.
Writing My Life 