Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 54

Of Teeth and Nails

Word Counters is a bit long-winded today...

He was beautiful and he knew it. The favoured mount of the master, he was usually found prancing his way about the countryside, tossing his gleaming black mane and/or tail and collecting admiring glances from human and animal alike. But did all the adulation make him humble? Or kind? Nope.

 

Instead, he was self-centered and narcissistic. Caring only for himself and his own wants and desires. Okay, yes, he submitted fairly willingly to the demands of his master, but let’s face it—only because to refuse would have had some fairly serious and decidedly unpleasant consequences. Yikes.

 

One day he was engaged in what had become common. Prancing around and/or eating and/or making fun of the lessor animals. Were they happy about this last activity? Well let’s just say the sheep, chickens and pigs had banded together and were assuaging hurt feelings by inventing new and colourful metaphors.

 

And it was at precisely that moment that The Rat wandered into the farmyard. I’m sure it will come as no surprise to know that Mr. Rat was preceded by a reputation garnered by centuries and generations of his ‘sort’. An unsavoury one, if I’m forced to make a judgement.

 

Sadly, this name, though not earned by him personally, would prevent his being quickly (or even possibly) accepted by the general population of the aforementioned farmyard. And I’m talking about the ‘nice’ sheep, chickens and pigs. With Mr. Stuck-Up on the far side of the paddock he hadn’t a hope.

 

But Mr. Rat was a clever fellow and, if anything, determined. Going from one group to another, he politely introduced himself. “Hello, my friends,” he would say. “As you can probably guess, I am new to the area and wondered if there was a possibility of comfortable lodgings and perhaps gainful employment hereabouts?”

 

Whereupon (good word) he was met, invariably, with either stoney stares or outright violence. Between you and me, those pig and sheep’s hooves and chicken beaks can do real and lasting damage when wielded by those in possession and with a modicum of knowledge. Not the most pleasant  of introductions.

 

Repulsed at last, Mr. Rat found himself in the paddock with Mr. Stuck-Up. Perhaps a bit of clarification is in order at this juncture. Mr. Stuck-up wasn’t our central character’s real name. Instead, he had been given the moniker: Big Jim. Or ‘Jimmy’ to his friends. If he had any.

 

Back to my story . . . Mr. Rat doffed his hat (yes, he had a hat) and bowed most respectfully to the glorious and imposing vision that stood aloof and majestic, and whose satin coat and long, flowing locks gleamed in the loving, golden caress of the afternoon light.

 

“Good day to you, Kind Sir,” the rat said. He then followed up this greeting with his introduction and question. All of which were, at first, simply ignored by Big Jim, who remained standing on his little hillock, staring fixedly at some fair, far-away spot only he was privy to. 

 

Then, Mr. Rat had the temerity to repeat himself—speaking just a bit louder in case it proved that the magnificent animal before him was merely hard of hearing. Big Jim, insulted at the suggestion of less-than-perfection, immediately reacted. With flint-hard hooves. And pin-point, rat-mashing accuracy.

 

He missed, however. (I know you were probably concerned.) But his message was well received. Mr. Rat knew beyond a doubt that he was unwelcome. Amazing how a set of hooves threatening to dance a tattoo upon your very mortal parts can strongly suggest a certain . . . attitude.

 

He retired to the No Rat’s Land between Big Jim’s paddock and that area claimed by the other denizens of the barnyard. And there he stayed, to their mutual disgust and equal disregard, feasting upon whatever grains and slops they spilled. For a rat, a fair (and tasty) situation.

 

A few days after the advent of The Rat, as everyone called him, Big Jim, suddenly became lame. I probably don’t have to explain to you the horror with which such an occurrence is viewed. A horse, as you know, is only as good as its feet and/or legs. 

 

To say the master was concerned is a vast understatement. Farriers were called out. Veterinarians. Anyone with even a tidbit of knowledge of horses and their accompanying hooves. No cause could be found. Word began to be bandied about that Big Jim was going to be sold. For meat.

 

Big Jim was, justifiably, crushed. Standing on the far side of his paddock, he was no longer the proud animal he had been. Instead, he was the picture of despair. Now, instead of ‘gazing to impress’, he watched for the wagon he knew was coming. That would signal his doom.

 

“Excuse me,” a small voice spoke.

Big Jim looked down.

Mr. Rat was standing respectfully at his feet.

Too sore and sad to even react, Big Jim merely looked at him. “What?”

“May I look?”

“What can you do?”

Mr. Rat shrugged. “I have strong teeth. Perhaps I can help.”

 

Big Jim merely shrugged and jerked his head toward the offending hoof. “Do what you want,” he said, shortly.

The rat walked around to the large hoof, propped up on a small mound of dirt. He sniffed with his little rat nose. He peered with his sharp little rat eyes.

 

“I think I’ve found the problem, he said, finally.

Big Jim stared at him. “Really. When all the doctors searched and couldn’t find anything, you—a rat—has done what none of them could do.”

The rat nodded. “You have a nail up in your hoof. Sharp. With no head.”

 

Big Jim stared some more. “How could I have picked up a nail?”

Mr. Rat shrugged. “I don’t know. Prancing?”

If Big Jim had not been completely covered with hair, he probably would have blushed convincingly. “Ummm . . .” he said.

“I can get it out,” said Mr. Rat.

 

“Seriously?”

“It will take others to help me, but if we all pull together, it should work.”

Big Jim was justifiably cheered by the little rat’s words. I mean, we’re talking about his life here. 

“I don’t ask much . . .” Mr. Rat said.

Big Jim looked at him. “Much?”

 

“Just a bed and some of your grain and a little respect.”

Big Jim thought about it. For .38 seconds. “Done! What do I need to do?”

“Well, first of all, I will need to find some help.” The rat looked around. “Do you suppose the other animals will assist?”

 

Big Jim thought about that. He thought—with shame—about the times he had made fun of the other animals. Would they help someone who had been nothing but cruel to them? Would he, given the same scenario? He doubted it. He had never thought about anyone else in his life.

 

“You can ask,” he told the little rat.

Mr. Rat scurried off and, amazingly, came back with a long line of animals prepared to help.

Humbled, Big Jim looked at them. “I am sorry for the way I treated you,” he said. “And I thank you with all my heart.”

 

They smiled wide animal smiles. “I guess we all have things we’re ashamed of. We regret our treatment of our rat friend here. Maybe our working together will signal a needed change in all of us.”

Big Jim nodded. “I’d like that.”

“Let’s all get to work,” Mr. Rat said.

 

He walked back around to the injured foot and nibbled at a spot with his sharp, strong teeth. Slowly, the end of a long, thin nail was revealed. Finally, there was enough exposed that he could grip it. He signalled to the other animals to grab onto each other. 

 

One by one, they grabbed tails with their teeth and beaks.The last one, a large, fine sheep, grabbed Mr. Rat’s tail. Then they pulled.

And pulled.

And pulled some more.

Slowly, inch by inch, a long, thin nail was extracted from the hoof.

Steadily, they pulled, until it was freed.

 

Mr. Rat dropped it to the ground and they all gathered around for a look.

“Ew,” said one of the chickens.

“In a word,” Big Jim said.

“How does your foot feel?” asked one of the sheep.

Big Jim carefully lowered his hoof to the ground. “Better!” he said.

“Yay!”

 

Big Jim recovered. And wasn’t sold. 

He lived a long, happy life, right there on the farm.

But from that day on, he, and all the other animals, treated the others with respect.

Because they had discovered that each of them needed each other. From the tall. To the small.

Thank you for the lesson, Mr. Rat. Jimmy and his friends are forever grateful. 

Today’s post is a writing challenge! Each month one of the participating bloggers picks a number between 12 and 50. All bloggers taking part that month are then challenged to write using that exact number of words in their post either once or multiple times. 

 

This month’s word count number is: 50

It was chosen by: Me!

 

At the end of this post, you’ll find links to the other blogs featuring this challenge. Keep the party going!

 

Baking In A Tornado

Messymimi’s Meanderings

The Meat I Can Eat

 

I always have loved meatloaf,

Mom made it, oh, so well,

That tender, sweet deliciousness

And what a sav’ry smell!

 

She paired it with potatoes,

And veggies, butter-y,

Then after grace was uttered,

She heaped a plate for me!

 

Oh, how I loved the flavour,

Onion, garlic was divine,

A hint of ripe tomato,

And spices were just fine!

 

I gobbled first and seconds,

And sometimes even thirds,

Mouth full of meat, potatoes,

Too delicious e’en for words!

 

Years have past, and Husby

Now wears the meatloaf ‘wreath’,

What I love the most about it now?

For it, I don’t need teeth!

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.comCause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So  Karen , Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

With OPERA as our topic,Next week is sure to be,The best one in a long time,At least t’will be for me!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...Meatloaf Appreciation (October 18) Today!Opera (October 25)New Lease (November 1)
Puns (November 8) Clean Out Your Refrigerator (November 15) Your favorite record (or) best stereo or record player ever (November 22)

Chia Pets (November 29)

Hurricane Sally

I hate phones.

Well, maybe not phones, per se, but phones that ring in the middle of the night.

Those, I hate.

This was brought home to me a few days ago.

At 3:13 AM.

I had just achieved defcon1. (Definitive nocturnal hyper-sleep level 1. The very best that sleepy time has to offer.) The shrilling of Mom’s phone jerked me into harsh reality.

I also hate reality.

But what really got my motor going was Mom’s gasp and shriek.

I hate . . . Okay, you already know where I’m going with this.

I’ve only ever heard that reaction once before. When Sally was kidnapped. You probably remember the story. I know I’ll never forget it…

I reached Mom’s bedroom doorway just as she dropped the phone. She was already standing and a shaft of moonlight pierced the curtains of her room and snared her in a noose of light. In her white nightie. She looked like the Ghost of Christmas Past.

“What is it, Mom?”

I already knew what she was going to say. Sally was away in some undiscovered country shooting another ‘Covid-acceptable’ movie.

She had been away for just over two weeks.

“Sally!” Mom managed to gasp out.

I hurried forward and lowered her back to a seated position on her bed. Then I knelt in front of her and took her freezing-cold hands. “What about Sally?”

“There was a hurricane. Well…at least it was a hurricane, but when it made landfall, it was downgraded…”

“Mom. You’re rambling. Get to the point!”

“Sally’s disappeared!”

“Good Lord Harry.”

“She and a bunch were separated from their group when they were trying to get to the hotel. The rest have been found, but Sally…wasn’t.”

She sniffed and reached out to snap on a light, then stood up and started rummaging for clothes. “I have to…”

I put a hand on her arm. “Mom. We can’t go anywhere.”

She sat down abruptly. “But…Sally.”

I know what you’re thinking. No one tangles up our lives quite like my brave, fool-hardy, kind, scatter-brained, clever and sometimes dumb sister. But life without her? That doesn’t bear thinking about.

“Mom. We can’t go to her. They are still mopping up from the hurricane. And with the Covid restrictions, well, it would be impossible!”

“The movie company flew us out last…time!” Her voice petered out somewhere around that last word.

“It’s just not possible this time.”

She looked at me. “I have to do something!”

“How about we wait to hear from the movie company. Maybe they will want us there and can make it happen.” More probably want us to stay far, far away, especially after the way we had handled the last crisis. I made a face, wondering if the officials we had roughed up had recovered their goodwill toward the good ol’ USA.

“What’s the matter?!” A sleepy Mort in shrunken, wrinkled flannel jammies had just appeared in the doorway.

I guess middle-of-the-night, shrilling phones can awaken the dead. And Mort, our resident freeloader who lives two stories down in the guest suite.

“Sally’s disappeared in a hurricane,” Mom said in a whisper.

“WHAT?!” Mort disappeared. Now, with a normal person, one would guess he was off to get dressed. But knowing Mort, he could have headed for the front door—jammies and all.

A few moments later, however, while I was still trying to coach Mom into a thick, terry bathrobe, Mort proved that, sometimes, he’s capable of rational behaviour. He re-appeared, having discarded said jammies in favour of shredded jeans and a far too-big T-shirt.

I think I preferred the jammies.

“What do we do? I’m packed!”

Of course he was.

“We wait.”

“WHAT?”

I sighed and spoke to both of them, slowly and carefully. “Sally is in South America. There has been a bad hurricane. We were watching it on the news last night. Somehow, Sally and several of her movie mates were separated from the rest as they tried to get back to their hotel. Everyone else has been accounted for. But not Sally. They have Covid there. We have Covid here. That, coupled with a hurricane makes it impossible for us to go there right now.” I paused. “We can worry just as easily from here.”

Mom seemed to shrink into herself.

“AND I WILL!” Mort declared.

It was the longest day of our lives. Followed by the longest night.

Followed by…well, let’s just say that three very long, slow days and nights went by.

I also hate long days and nights. Just thought I’d get that out there.

The movie company kept us in the loop, so to speak. There were numerous phone calls and a representative of the company even came and worried with us for one of the days.

Finally, somewhere around breakfast time on the third day, Mom and I were at the kitchen table. I was trying to coax her into eating something. Light spilled generously into the room from an unsympathetic sun and lit up her pale, wan face and dark-ringed eyes.

The phone rang.

Both of us stared at it. It had been three days. We had almost given up hope.

This call, I knew, would make or break my mom.

She reached for it, but Mort appeared out of nowhere and dove under her hand, snagging the receiver. “What?” he shouted.

His face lit up. “Where?!”

My heart started beating again.

With tears streaming down his face, he wordlessly handed Mom the phone.

You have to know that, in normal times, Mom is remarkably quiet and well-spoken. “What?” she barked into the receiver. Then she dropped the phone and, putting her face into her hands, released the tears she had been holding in for three days.

I sighed audibly and grabbed the phone. “Please tell me what has happened!” I said, as calmly as I could.

“Sally has been found!” a voice said. “She apparently was washed downstream and found by a tribe of natives. They have nursed her back to health and two of their members canoed her back to civilization this morning!”

It was my turn to drop the phone.

We were asked to await Sally’s return in our home.

We did.

It wasn’t easy.

Finally, a whole day after receiving that fateful phone call, the door swung open and there she was.

Big as life.

“Wow! Am I hungry!”

And just as annoying.

We hovered around her for most of that day. Mort couldn’t be pried off with a crowbar—even a bent one, which is all we have.

We managed to get some of her story out of her. A jumble of “A great confluence in what (she was glad) wasn’t a glacial river. Following a tree-top trail to the native’s home camp. Something about ‘squirrel’ being the local specialty.” 

Mostly she talked about how kind the natives were and how they marvelled over her pale skin and blonde hair.

She was sporting a sizeable wound down one cheek and had some remarkable bruising on both arms. But still she was whole.

And alive.

 

P.S. It would’t be for a year after this story that a couple of explorers would again come upon Sally’s tribe of ‘kind’ natives. The ones who had been SO interested in her.

When the two men stumbled into the camp, those same natives immediately escorted the explorers to their most sacred place. A temple with a figure of a goddess on a glistening gold stand at its centre.

A figure that bore an uncanny resemblance to a world-famous actress who had been temporarily lost in that area a year before.

Sally? A goddess?

Oh, dear.

 

Use Your Words is a writing challenge. Each month we participants donate several words and/or phrases to our noble leader, Karen, who then re-distributes them.

The catch is, none of us knows who will get our words and what will be done with them.

Totally fun!

My words this month: Tree-top trail ~ confluence ~ freeloader ~ squirrel ~ glacial river ~ local specialty were donated by my good friend Tamara at Part-Time Working Hockey Mom.

Thanks so much, Tamara!

 

Having fun? Visit the other participant’s blogs!

Links to the other “Use Your Words” posts:

 

Baking In A Tornado

Wandering Web Designer

Climaxed

What TF Sarah

Part-time Working Hockey Mom 

 

 

Octo-Oops

Mom lied to her kids.

Okay, yes, she had a good reason.

And no, it didn’t turn out well.

Maybe I should explain . . .

On the Stringam ranch, the ranch house and buildings were nestled snugly in the bend of the south fork of the Milk River.

A river that, at certain times of the year, turned into a rushing, deadly torrent.

A river to which my older sister was drawn like a baby to an IPhone.

After several hair-raising episodes in which my mom, my sister and wet, cold, muddy, slightly deadly and totally unsympathetic river water featured strongly, Mom decided to get more pro-active.

What better way to police than to make the kids want to police themselves?!

Genius!

And by the way, this is where the lying comes into play . . .

Using her not unspectacular story-telling abilities, Mom described the octopus that lived in the milky waters of the great Milk River and waited patiently for little kids – its favourite snack – to show up by themselves on the river bank.

Little kids that, without parental accompaniment, were fair game. The octopus would then be able to seize and drag them down to the ‘depths’.

Her dramatic portrayal lost nothing in the telling and she soon had my sister shivering with fear.

Or what Mom mistakenly thought was fear. 

The next day, Mom, happily secure in the fact that her daughter would never, ever again go near the octopus-infested waters of the Milk River, turned her back for a moment.

Only to discover that her daughter had, once again, disappeared.

And taken her 18 month-old brother with her.

Sigh.

Mom sprinted, out of habit, to the river.

And there she found her two little ones.

Happily clambering about the slippery slopes, looking into the dark water for a glimpse of the octopus that lived there.

I think we all learn a lesson from this.Don’t waste your most lurid story-telling skills on a child with more imagination than you.

Now picture it with a frown.
And a little less friendly...

50 Word Wednesday #10

Was that a groan?
Blair looked up toward the hayloft, thinking hard.
None of the ranch staff were remotely close to the milking barn.
Another groan. This time, even the cow he was milking reacted.
He had only two choices. 
Investigate.
Or run.
Which should he choose?
Which would you?

Today is Fifty Day Wednesday!

And that means another challenge to tell a story using ONLY fifty words.

Thank you so much, Adela, for opening this new world to me . . .

For the rest of October, I think I’ll concentrate on things spooky.

Sooo fun!

This is an uber-fun, uber-challenging exercise.Join us!

Leave your contribution in the comments...

Forbidden Territoyry

My first/George's third birthday party.
Notice the bull and matador.
How come I didn't have toys like that?My favourite toys . . . weren't mine.
Because everyone had better toys than me. Or at least Mom and Dad did.
Their neat toys were all carefully displayed on their fireplace mantle.
Okay, I thought it was weird, too.
Especially since they never, ever played with them.
Not once.
I had watched.
There was a plaster matador and bull set.
One of which, had a cape.
And one, horns.
I'll let you sort that out.
They were immensely fun to play with. Until Mom caught up with me.
"Diane, put those back!"
Sigh.
Then there were the models of bulls.
Horned and polled Herefords.
They were terrific when one wanted to play farm.
Of course, then the matador's bull would have to join in.
Giving the matador just that much more responsibility.
He was tall and strong and handsome.
He could handle it.
"Diane, what did I tell you?!"
Rats.
But the best of all was the bronze horse.
He was glorious.
Standing looking out across the prairie, ears pricked.
He even had a bronze saddle and bridle.
With bronze reins.
"Diane! How on earth did you lug that thing down there! Put it back at once!"
How did she find me? I was clear behind the couch! Geeze. That woman was everywhere!
Mom and Dad's toys entertained me for years.
Until I dropped the matador.
It was an accident!
And twisted those bronze reins off the horse.
Oops. Who knew they would do that?
But I maintain that if they didn't want them played with, they should have put them away.
Right?

Thanks Giving

Hmmm . . . Throwing a Party or Thanksgiving? Which to choose...I decided to go with Thanksgiving, just because I’m SO grateful for so many things this year!Including you, my good friends!
‘Please bow your head and all give thanks for blessings you’ve been given,’

I did as I was told, then thought of this old life I’m live-n.

I’ve fam-i-ly, that’s number one and a modicum of wealth,

And food to eat and clothes to wear and yes, I’ve got my health.

There’s things that I can do that make each day diverse and fun,

And friends and family to help (that keep me on the run).

I’ve tales and articles to write and some to read as well,

And always there’s a grandchild near and stories I can tell.

I’ve got my job, I’ve got my faith, I’m grateful for them both,

And even problems when they come, assuring spiritual growth.

I’m grateful for my childhood, and parents I hold dear,

And all my precious memories that still remain so clear.

My friends both near and far I simply could not do without,

I’m grateful for their caring, even when they bawl me out!

I’m grateful for my country and the freedoms I enjoy,

And happy, too, that I can choose just how I’ll be employed.

My list goes on and on and, yes, it truly humbles me,

When I think of all I have and all that I can be,

And so, today, you’ll find me, folding arms, with eyes shut tight,For blessings I’ve been given...I thank Him with all my might!

Photo Credit: Karen of bakinginatornado.comCause Mondays do get knocked a lot,
With poetry, we all besought
To try to make the week begin
With gentle thoughts,
Perhaps a grin?
So  Karen , Charlotte, Mimi, me
Have crafted poems for you to see.
And now you’ve read what we have wrought…
Did we help?
Or did we not?

Next week is different, you’ll agree,We’ll share a meatloaf memory!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks...Throw a Party (October 11) (Also Canadian Thanksgiving!) Today!Meatloaf Appreciation (October 18)Opera (October 25)New Lease (November 1)
Puns (November 8) Clean Out Your Refrigerator (November 15) Your favorite record (or) best stereo or record player ever (November 22)

Chia Pets (November 29)

Scrambled

Scrabble is a Tolley game…

Five months plus forty-five years ago, today, Husby and I were on our honeymoon.

Had been for eight days.

We were in Glacier National Park, enjoying the scenery.

And each other. ;)

We stopped into a store. I can’t remember which, but they had Scrabble games.

One of which went home with us…

From then on, Scrabble was our game of choice. That particular game provided hours (and years) of fun.

I admit it, he was much faster than me. 

Grant's rack of choice.
You probably can't see it, but it says: 'Diane takes a long time.'
But I was determined to create the largest words I could and usually managed to use most, if not all, my letters.

And very often won.

As our children learned to read, they joined in. Playing with them took on many iterations, the most popular of which was 'Scribble', a game in which all letters MUST be used and the words created must NOT be found in any dictionary. Giving rise to such words as: Keeregg--the bright orange egg of the Keer bird which is laid over wires across the highway. You’ve probably seen them. (Note: Those little suckers have to be able to fly right from hatching, or chaos and/or death will ensue!)

As our children moved out, they went with their own game under their arms.

We still play. Oh, the original game is battered and life-weary, much like the two players, but still intact and serviceable.

Also much like the two players…

P.S. I'm still winning...

Almost Arrested

Guest post from Littel Brother, Blair!
Mosque in Casablanca
I was almost arrested in Morocco. 

Really. 

At least that’s what I thought... 

When I was 15 years old, I joined a travel club in high school and we traveled to Spain.  Prior to joining the club, I had heard about the trip and the total cost. Way more money than I had. That trip was not in my future!

Then one day my mother asked me if I was aware of the trip. I said yes, but I didn’t have the cash to pay for it. She said that it was the chance of a lifetime, so if I paid for half of the trip with my 4H calf money, she and dad would pay for the other half.

I thought it was a good deal.

I signed up.

Prior to the trip, our travel group had a few meetings where we were instructed on how we should behave and how and what we should pack.

Finally, we were given a very big warning. We should be very carefulabout the laws in a foreign country.

Otherwise, we could get “thrown in jail and we would never see our families again”.

I didn’t think much about this because: I didn’t break rules.

Finally, the day of departure arrived.  Our travel club boarded a school bus that took us to the Calgary airport.  From there, we flew to Montreal, then to Copenhagen, Denmark.  We spent a day in Copenhagen (I’d sure like to go back there sometime) then, finally, jetted off to Spain.

While in Spain we saw flamenco dancers, ate strange and wonderful food, and toured fascinating places. One day we boarded a ferry and boated across the Mediterranean to Morocco, by far the most fascinating place of all.

I had never seen anything like it. The architecture, the markets, the people, the smells were not at all like anything that I grew up with on the ranch. I stared everywhere in amazement.

As we made our way down one of the streets, a lady dressed in a burka walked between my group and me. I didn’t pay much attention because I was busy gawking.

Then I noticed some police about 100 yards ahead of us. They were looking at our group. I started to wonder why they were interested in us. We were just farm kids from Canada. 

Suddenly, the police pointed at me and said, “There!”

Abruptly the statement “Don’t get thrown in jail or you will never see your family again!” ran through my mind.

I thought, “What did I do? Am I not allowed to look at the buildings or the people?”

I was gripped by fear as the police ran down the street toward me.

As they neared, the lady in the burka suddenly screamed, “NO, NO, NO!”, spun around, and ran right into me.

She was about 8 inches shorter than me but she could have been a star linebacker for high school football.

She ran off down the street as I stumbled backward, off-balance and terrified the police were coming to arrest me.

They ran past me after the women in the burka.

I breathed a sigh of relief…

…but it took me a while to calm down.

Fifty Word Wednesday #9

The box was empty.

Piqued, I called the company, demanding my Minion costume.

The sounds of shuffling at their end. Finally, a voice came on the line. “Madame, we’re sorry about the mix-up. Your Minion costume is on its way. Feel free to keep the Lady Godiva costume already sent!”

Today is Fifty Day Wednesday!

And that means another challenge to tell a story using ONLY fifty words.

Thank you so much, Adela, for opening this new world to me . . .

This is an uber-fun, uber-challenging exercise.Join us!

Leave your contribution in the comments...