Against the Odds that I will be calling Russia any time in the near future. Too many people have already.
Call Russia?
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Monthly Archives: February 2017
The Good Seats Aren’t Reserved for Me
Cono Dennis
My ears focus on the Sound of the train’s idling, but eager-to-go engines. Where the hell would I be today if I didn’t have those railroad memories chugging along with me, some good and some anything but?
Just as I’m feeling comfortable that I won’t be crowded, I feel something settling into that worn seat next to me, making itself comfortable but making me anything but. It nudges me. I ignore it and then tell it to go away. It doesn’t listen. The memories want me to pay them a little attention. I know this train is about to pull out. I know this train is taking me to Temple. But my mind and my uninvited seat companion start to take me somewhere else, somewhere I’ve already been before, somewhere I don’t care to go back to. It starts speeding me down the track a lot faster than this train is accustomed and a whole lot faster than I can put a stop to.
The first memory is safe. It makes me wish, “If only it could have all been this easy.” But past wishes were reserved for the other folks with good seats.
Not for me.
Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper
The Madam’s Worry
Another one-two-three whiskey slam, and Reba retired to her room. The house quiet, I poured another shot, placed the poker chips back in their slots, and settled my weary bones in the parlor.
I flicked off the chandelier and closed the curtains, indications the bordello was closed for business. Now, only a small flame flickered from the lantern beside my settee. A beautiful house, a beautiful room. The thought of being forced out terrified me and left me queasy. Perhaps the whiskey was talking, making me somber and heavy-hearted. What if city officials dropped my grand establishment from the city’s Blue Book, and Madam Volvino’s House of Disgust remained open?
The room, empty of anyone with predetermined Expectations of me, I slouched on the red velvet settee and took another sip. I remembered that one perfect night with John and then dismissed the memory. Years ago, others saved me. This time, I’d do it on my own.
Excerpt from The Last Bordello
Valen-TiMe’s Day
If you saw one of my previous posts “What am I getting myself into,” you’ll know that I think of projects at the last minute and push myself into a deadline. Well, the deadline is today and last night, I finished my V-Day presents for my grandkids. Hand-stitched since I don’t own or know how to use a sewing machine. This one’s for my grandson:
This is my granddaughter’s:
Definitely a bunch of mistakes but, I did it! And, blurry-eyed, on time! Whew!
HAPPY VALENTINES DAY, EVERYONE!!!
It Ain’t About Hooch
photo credit
I need to say something. Something to calm Brandon’s storm. “So Brandon. Remember that Possum Piss you forced me to swallow?”
“Shut up, Emma June.”
“Just saying. I wouldn’t have minded so bad if you’d poured what we’re selling down my throat. Best in the south.”
“Best in the south,” Scoot mutters.
Brandon’s black eyes coil like a snake as he stares at me. “Ain’t about hooch, stupid ass.”
Scooter makes a slow-go at standing up. He sticks his hand inside Knife Pocket. I get closer to him and whisper, “It’s okay, Scoot. We’re going home soon.”
Frank’s eyes go wide, his fists clenched at his sides. “I didn’t touch your sister, Brandon.”
“Yeah? And I trust you? You’re nothing but a gigolo from New Orleans.”
“Nah-Len’s,” Frank says.
I try not to laugh at Frank’s Seriousness. He’s never pronounced the town like that.
Brandon spits again. I want to tell him I know what he did to Carla. I can’t. I promised. But I never promised one thing.
Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket
How do you shake hands?
Funny, how a word prompt will remind you of something. A long time ago, when I was fourteen, the pastor leading our confirmation class, talked about shaking hands. He said, “Shake hands as if you mean it. Who wants to shake a limp fish?” We called him P.F. and, for many reasons, he was one of the best individual’s I’d ever met.
For some reason, his unexpected comments about shaking hands stuck with me. Shake firm. Show your strength. Show your character.
So, I began shaking with confidence even if I didn’t feel any. That’s when I noticed the different kinds of handshakes on my receiving end. The limp fish. The Lukewarm I-don’t-really-want-to-meet you kind; the one’s with, egads, two fingers.
Decades later, I realize I have formed my own version of a handshake. The main difference is that I don’t do the pump up and down. I grab hold, look in the person’s eyes as if they are worthy, and don’t let go until I feel as if I’ve truly “met” them. Sometimes, I will put my other hand on top for good “measure.”
How do you shake hands? (Or do you just fist-bump? 🙂 )
Oh, and if you are shaking a paw, always do it gently!
What am I getting myself into?
My ideas always come at the last moment. I’m trying to make stuffed animal snakes as a valentine’s present for my grand kids and I barely know how to sew! EESH!
When you have writer’s block
you can always make shadow puppets on the paper.
Because you didn’t ask
I don’t often show my body parts to the cyber world. Today, I am. Yesterday, I went to the eye doctor. He took pictures of my optic nerves. How cool is this?!!
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Don’t criticize those who are “different”
I don’t want to answer any more of her all-the-time questions. So I ask, “Where’s Scooter?”
“Behind on his school work. No surprise there.” She laughs, but I know her son lagging behind in this world rubs blisters of worry under her skin. “He’s home with Leonard,” she continues. “I’ll swannee, my poor husband doesn’t have much hair left from the strands he pulls out trying to help Scooter.”
“Hmm,” I say, looking at Choppers.
Kids at school say Scooter’s grain elevator doesn’t reach the top of the silo. That he acts more like a six-year-old than a thirteen-year-old. They don’t know Scooter like I do. He might not be the brightest penny in the cash box, but I’ve known him all my life. He has more grain than most of the numbskulls in Holly Gap, Texas and Scooter’s worth more than the whole lot of them. Wherever Scoot skips, bounces or walks, goodness sprouts in the footsteps he leaves behind. Without Scooter, everything would grow dead.
Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket
Daily word prompt: Criticize
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 