Slide

image from http://www.byoplayground.com/
image from http://www.byoplayground.com/

“I call Gene Simmons!”

“I call Axl Rose!”

“Are we ready to rock and roll?”

Cupping hands around a mouth, whispering to emulate screaming crowds. An air-guitar held aloft; a single chord strummed and the arm brought up. Hands patting the metal post of the monkey bars in a frenetic drumbeat. The crunch of gravel as feet land heavily and the devil horns are raised up in defiance.

“I’m gonna do it today!”

“Really?”

“Yeah! I’m ready. The fans are ready. It’s time.”

“Sweet!”

Feet crunching across gravel. A hissing audience calling encore! encore!

Metal clanging as hands and feet clamber up to the peak of the playground. More devil horns. More enthusiastic hooting and laughing.

A grin. An excited twinkle in innocent eyes.

Another air-guitar; another chord.

Power sli-ide!

Thud thud thud with each eager step—then knees hit plastic and for a moment they scoot smoothly, like a rock god across a stage. Then denim catches on a bump and with a shout a little body tumbles down the slide and lands face-first in the gravel at the foot.

Silence.

Staring.

A groan.

Then, “Mom! We’re too hardcore!”

Frying pan

image from q13fox.com
image from q13fox.com

Pop! With a burst of fat, the bacon sizzles in the pan and the house fills with the mouth-watering aroma of frying pig meat. A sting burns your arm, and you glance down to see a red spot forming, but you barely feel the pain. Moving mechanically, you push the bacon with the fork, scraping the tines across the bottom of the no-stick-but-you-totally-have-to-use-Pam-otherwise-it’ll-stick pan.

Another bubble of fat pops and sprays your arm. You sigh.

With a yawn and scuffle of feet, he walks in. His hand grazes your bottom through the thin satin pyjamas; just like with the fat, you barely feel it. It is not lecherous, though you don’t doubt that his intent is. To you, it is little more than an irritating flutter, like a moth circling a flame.

“You’re making breakfast for me?” he says, laughter in his voice. He rounds past you and peers at the stove. “Jesus Christ, you burned the bacon again. You can’t even cook fucking bacon?

You look up at him and it is as if you are seeing him for the very first time. Seeing clearly, like the fog lifting off the bay on a late fall morning.

Looking him in the eye, you say, “Get bent, Steve,” and smash the frying pan into the side of his head, sending the contents spraying across the room.

With a happy sigh drowned out by his screams, you turn, pick up your mug of steaming coffee, and go to sit on the porch.


This week’s prompt, frying pan, ended up being a multipart story completely by crazy random happenstance! Read the next part in the saga of the narrator and Steve here!

Gravel

image from en.wikipedia.org
image from en.wikipedia.org

 

Mountains silhouetted in the sunlight, erupting from the earth in majestic pyramid peaks. They pierced the blue summer sky and parted the clouds, and feral beasts lived in the shadows at their feet. Hooting and screaming, filthy and tangled, these small, gangling beasts ran and loped around the bases of the mountains. Tiny feet kicking up clouds of dust and sending rocks clattering; hands with sandy backs, grime shoved beneath nails; faces freckled and brown by the sun, wide with smiles that exposed Chiclet teeth, bracketed by lines of joy caked with dirt that aged them like miniature geriatric chimpanzees. Laughing and running and kicking and shoving until the sky turned from clear blue to a haze of orange and purple, and the dark forced them to leave the empty subdivision still in construction—their mountain range of gravel and sand.

Silhouette

image from www.clipartbest.com
image from http://www.clipartbest.com

The silhouette was little more than a shadowy blemish behind the protective shroud of linen. Stained as the sheet was with previous inhabitants of the room, it should have been difficult to see those little things that made her unique, but things that should be are not always so. The rogue curl that grazed the slope of her brow. The stern, sharp edge of her nose. Those elegant hands, tucked together. All bathed in moonlight as the rope creaked and the silhouette gently turned behind the curtain, as feral voices called for more blood.

Savage/Raisins

www.jaysbrewing.com
image from http://www.jaysbrewing.com

Ding dong!

Little steps, bandaged by a wiggle skirt. A bowl full of goodies, bristling with myriad sugar-induced comas.

Trick or treat!

A witch’s cackle. The laughter of children.

Happy Halloween!

Thank you, but painted faces fall as little red boxes rattle into outstretched pillow cases.

The door shuts. The bowl sets down, awaiting the next gaggle of zombies, mummies, and black cats.

A thud. A crack. A splotch of yellow and white spilling down the windows.

Oh, those little savages!

A sigh. The rustle of newspaper. You shouldn’t have given them raisins, dear.

Timber

image from www.wikipedia.org
image from http://www.wikipedia.org

The timbers were stained black, weathered by years of peat fires filling the house with smoke. hey were the constant, the bones of the house. As children were born and lost, as minds were moulded and shaped, still they remained, unchanging. Hair greyed and skin sagged. Holes were dug and generations lost. Suns rose and set, and still the timbers watched over the family, a constant, silent guardian.

Blanket

image from www.pinterest.com
image from http://www.pinterest.com

It had been many years since he last looked at the blanket.

Long and kite-shaped, with lace trim and one quilted side – it had been the blanket for his son. He was going to wrap that fragile, new body in the soft wool, cocooning, protective, and warm. He would watch those tiny grasping fingers curl around the corded lace and pull at loose threads; he would watch it get stained with mud and tears, blood and food – with the messes of childhood. He would treasure it long after his son was grown; he would perhaps even swaddle in it a grandson one day.

So many plans. So many ifs.

It had been twenty years. That blanket had never touched his son, and never would.

With a heavy heart, he folded it up and put it away.