You may click
You may read
Will this give you what you need?
Maybe so
Maybe not
Worth a shot?
Indeed.
😊
You can get it here.
Worth a shot?
Reply
Tag Archives: moonshine
Two crackers shy of a box
She’s here. Now.
No need to check on me.
Go home, Miss Helen,
moonshine maker.
Miss Helen
two crackers shy of a box
hair colored orange (she thinks is red)
pokes out on the ends like soggy cactus needles
unless she’s driving Roadster
pulls red tam pulled tight over head
big bosoms poke steering wheel
with hands clutched tight
elbows poking out on both sides
Peers through windshield
wearing aviator goggles.
She’s here. Now.
No need to check on me.
Go home, Miss Helen,
moonshine maker.
Beats her gums about town folk –
“Saw Betty at the Five and Dime…”
“Oh, Lordy, the dentist, he’s …”
I stop listening
Think of something else.
Oh, Lordy.
She slaps and fluffs a couch pillow.
Dust bunnies flit around her orange hair.
Don’t lay down! Don’t lay down.
Go home, Miss Helen.
moonshine maker
My house, too small
for two crackers.
photo credit
daily word prompt: fluff
Don’t let the coppers stop us!
The goods are hidden under a canvas in the backseat. I pinch my nose. The smell’s giving me a headache.
“Lux,” Frank says as we putter down the road.
I remember the advertisement. Lux soap, rich in fragrance.
“Every box has a layer of soap on top. Not Ivory. Miss Helen says it’s not strong enough.”
“But you can’t smell sealed moonshine anyway,” I say.
“No. But she says if I’m stopped, I’m supposed to say I’m delivering soap to Common’s Variety in Houston.”
“And if we are stopped, say I’m your little sister. It would look daffy otherwise.”
“Deal.”
We settle in for the drive, Miss Helen’s directions between us.
“You know what she told me before I left?” Frank says.
Before I’ve counted to three, Frank says, “Get there as fast as Holly Gap gossip.”
I backhand his shoulder and laugh. “Then we should already be there,” I say, and settle into Nervous Town where a daddy finds out his daughter lied.
Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket by CD-W
Crossing the Mayor then sitting cross-legged
Featured image photo credit
Miss Helen towers over the short mayor but she looks small with worry.
His hands are glue-stuck to his hips. “… promised! … You can’t … like wolves … and what about…” His cheeks jiggle and get redder.
Miss Helen says something and the Mayor smiles. His cheeks still look jelly-filled, but now they’ve returned to pink.
“Fine then,” he says, and shakes her hand before rolling his roundness down the street.
Finally, Miss Helen unties the apron, mops her brow, then buries her head inside its faded flowers and ruffles. She tilts her head down until her shoulders shake.
“Miss Helen?” I poke an index finger on her arm to make her talk instead of cry.
“Oh, Emma June. I’m stuck in a hurricane of worry.” Her voice hitches.
I can’t help it but I say, “You’re in the Sad Thicket?”
Right on Main Street, she laughs and cries herself straight down to the sidewalk and leans against the hardware store under the sign that says, “Free Hammers Yesterday.”
I sit next to Miss Helen, cross-legged like hers. I look around to see who’s watching her dramatics. She doesn’t seem to care one iota.
“Emma June. I’m at the end of my wits. How in the world can I put socks on a rooster?”
The image makes me laugh, so I turn away.
“Now, Leonard is crippled. This batch was going to bring us heavy sugar. Enough to get a tutor for Scooter. And maybe a new purse and clothes for me.” She sniffles.
Now I understand. Scooter thought he found his new tutor at the swimming hole.
I’m sorry for Miss Helen’s woes. Daddy used to say problems are born just so we can solve them. That was before Mama left.
From my upcoming novel, The Moonshine Thicket.
If Only…
Eleven-year-old Emma June just wants to Flee away from the bully and go to the flea circus . But she doesn’t listen to her instincts. And that’s when everything went wrong.
“Not over there, Carla. That boy gives me the creeps.” <Emma June>
“It’s only Rachael’s brother, for crying out loud.”
I remember the time I stayed overnight ay Rachael’s. Brandon kept peeking through her bedroom window trying to scare us by pretending to be an axe murderer.
“He’s a sixteen-yea- old bully,” I say.
“He’s not that bad. I’ve seen his good sides.”
“I’d rather go to the flea circus. They’re trained, you know. They can turn a miniature carousel two thousand times their size.”
“And they’re itchy.” Carla grabs my hand and leads me toward the Knock-Down-The-Milk-Bottle tent where Brandon stands motioning us forward with a bona-fide moonshine jug in his hand.
(excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket)
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 