(no subject)
Hello, hello. I wandered in her from thefirstline.
For those of you who don't know me--I'm a nut. I love funny stories; kiddy lit; sci-fi. (What a combination.) I hate blood.
I dunno if I can post to every week's challenge, but I'll try.
I love grammar. If you don't love grammar the way I love grammar, just let me know and I will lay off. (And if you would like to argue about when and where to punctuate things--tha'd be great. We'll have to do it elsewhere though.)
'Nough said.
Title: Who said summer was cool?
Author: Mememe-- Izzie!
Genre: I don't get genre, humor? Maybe?
"Hi-yah Chuck."
Deb tried desperately to look cool, flipping back her blonde-streaked hair. Today was hot, and when the heat and sun combined in the new black leather interior, well, her car turned steam-bath.
"Gotta love summer, huh?" She tried to ignore the golf ball rolling across her back window.
Chuck grunted.
"So you got any hot plans?"
Chuck dug his foot into the ground kicking up a spray of small rocks. He studied his shoes.
"Well, I guess you heard about what I'm gonna be doing all summer."
Chuck stared at the roof of the blue Chevelle. Shiny. It almost glowed. He wanted to touch it; just to be sure it was real. He touched his thinning wallet instead. The car would have to remain a dream.
"You gotta job yet?" Deb wished he'd answer; wished he'd acknowledge her presence, her hair or, at least, her newfound prosperity.
Chuck stared at his toes.
A crumpled sheet of newspaper flew past Deb's head. "So, uh, what you doing Saturday."
The wind blew through Chuck's hair. He shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. A string. He began to pull on it.
"Mrs. Clarkson put all her furs up in moth balls last week. She has a whole closet full of fancy things."
Chuck pulled at his pocket. Mrs. Clarkson always looked as if she had eaten an onion. Not a lemon, that would have just made her sour, but she always seemed...pouty. Like if you squeezed her there would be pouty little tears everywhere and she smelled...stuffy.
"They planted a Japernese maple this spring."
"A what?"
"A maple." Deb giggled. "It's a mighty fancy tree--cost a bunch too."
A small foot began to hammer into the back of Deb's seat. "I wanna go home. I wanna go home."
Deb ignored it. It is very difficult to be cool when a three year-old is pounding at your back, but she tried.
"That the Clarkson kid?" Chuck nodded at the toddler in the backseat.
"That's my little angel for the summer. Aren't you little lamb?"
"Noooooooooo! Wanna go! Go hooooooome!
"Well, see yah, I gotta take my lil' siren back home." Deb turned the car and headed back to the house. A steaming, screaming summer, she hadn't counted on that. Sure they would pay her, and taking care of Ricky couldn't be all that hard, but still.
She hated it when Mrs. Clarkson left; it was an inevitable temper show, but she loved when Mrs. Clarkson was gone. When she was around she hung over Deb's shoulder chirping instructions: don't let him pick his nose; watch that he eats all his soup; don't let him run in the hallway.
There was a whole bookshelf in that hallway dedicated purely to the fascinating topic of childhood development. How to raise your child from failure to success in 30 days, that was one of Ricky's favorites. He had tried to eat it twice in the last week.
Deb pulled into the driveway, Mrs. Clarkson was early.
"What are you doing out in my car!"
"I washed it. Ricky wanted to tour the neighborhood."
"Car. Momma car go?"
"This summer you are not to take my car or my child anywhere, anywhere at all. Is that understood?!
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. Come back Monday so you can take him to piano lesson."
Summer. It just did not make any sense at all.
For those of you who don't know me--I'm a nut. I love funny stories; kiddy lit; sci-fi. (What a combination.) I hate blood.
I dunno if I can post to every week's challenge, but I'll try.
I love grammar. If you don't love grammar the way I love grammar, just let me know and I will lay off. (And if you would like to argue about when and where to punctuate things--tha'd be great. We'll have to do it elsewhere though.)
'Nough said.
Title: Who said summer was cool?
Author: Mememe-- Izzie!
Genre: I don't get genre, humor? Maybe?
"Hi-yah Chuck."
Deb tried desperately to look cool, flipping back her blonde-streaked hair. Today was hot, and when the heat and sun combined in the new black leather interior, well, her car turned steam-bath.
"Gotta love summer, huh?" She tried to ignore the golf ball rolling across her back window.
Chuck grunted.
"So you got any hot plans?"
Chuck dug his foot into the ground kicking up a spray of small rocks. He studied his shoes.
"Well, I guess you heard about what I'm gonna be doing all summer."
Chuck stared at the roof of the blue Chevelle. Shiny. It almost glowed. He wanted to touch it; just to be sure it was real. He touched his thinning wallet instead. The car would have to remain a dream.
"You gotta job yet?" Deb wished he'd answer; wished he'd acknowledge her presence, her hair or, at least, her newfound prosperity.
Chuck stared at his toes.
A crumpled sheet of newspaper flew past Deb's head. "So, uh, what you doing Saturday."
The wind blew through Chuck's hair. He shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. A string. He began to pull on it.
"Mrs. Clarkson put all her furs up in moth balls last week. She has a whole closet full of fancy things."
Chuck pulled at his pocket. Mrs. Clarkson always looked as if she had eaten an onion. Not a lemon, that would have just made her sour, but she always seemed...pouty. Like if you squeezed her there would be pouty little tears everywhere and she smelled...stuffy.
"They planted a Japernese maple this spring."
"A what?"
"A maple." Deb giggled. "It's a mighty fancy tree--cost a bunch too."
A small foot began to hammer into the back of Deb's seat. "I wanna go home. I wanna go home."
Deb ignored it. It is very difficult to be cool when a three year-old is pounding at your back, but she tried.
"That the Clarkson kid?" Chuck nodded at the toddler in the backseat.
"That's my little angel for the summer. Aren't you little lamb?"
"Noooooooooo! Wanna go! Go hooooooome!
"Well, see yah, I gotta take my lil' siren back home." Deb turned the car and headed back to the house. A steaming, screaming summer, she hadn't counted on that. Sure they would pay her, and taking care of Ricky couldn't be all that hard, but still.
She hated it when Mrs. Clarkson left; it was an inevitable temper show, but she loved when Mrs. Clarkson was gone. When she was around she hung over Deb's shoulder chirping instructions: don't let him pick his nose; watch that he eats all his soup; don't let him run in the hallway.
There was a whole bookshelf in that hallway dedicated purely to the fascinating topic of childhood development. How to raise your child from failure to success in 30 days, that was one of Ricky's favorites. He had tried to eat it twice in the last week.
Deb pulled into the driveway, Mrs. Clarkson was early.
"What are you doing out in my car!"
"I washed it. Ricky wanted to tour the neighborhood."
"Car. Momma car go?"
"This summer you are not to take my car or my child anywhere, anywhere at all. Is that understood?!
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. Come back Monday so you can take him to piano lesson."
Summer. It just did not make any sense at all.