Incorporation

This, chapter 45, marks the conclusion of the Thursday Prompts over at Poetigress's place. Starting is February, Duroc will be taking 'em over, but for the upcoming month of January, I'll be slapping chapters together on my own!

Still, you can read the earlier bits of this whole thing by choosing appropriately from the following selections--1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, and 44--and we'll all meet back here next week for Part 46!

Oh, and the final prompt? "Saying goodbye."

     Now, I'd like to say that I woke up the next morning ready 

to take on the world, ready to kick my fears down the stairs, 

chuck my doubts out the window, give the butterflies in my 

stomach the ol' heave-ho and face the future with firm chin and 

steely eyes.

     But, well, I'm trying to be honest in this whole thing, 

aren't I?  So instead, I've gotta admit I woke up bleary-eyed, 

choking, and itchy, a fair portion of El Brujo's considerable 

bulk spread over my face.

     Have I mentioned she sheds in her sleep?

     This led to some flailing, sneezing and gasping on my part 

and some growling, sniffing and recriminations from El Brujo: 

"Were you humans not so devoid of sensible fur, you'd no doubt 

suffer far fewer allergic reactions."

     Falling into my chair, I somehow got myself down the hall 

to the bathroom, scraped away the layers of dander and dried cat 

spit till I found my face, scrubbed it with the hottest water I 

could stand, and rolled back into my bedroom only to see Serena 

and Honoria perched on the windowsill, El Brujo seated like some 

Egyptian statue on my pillow.  "Well??" Honoria shrieked, waving 

her wings so wildly, she would've knocked Serena right over 

backwards if the squirrel hadn't ducked.  "We going into 

business or what??"

Night Thoughts

The penultimate Thursday Prompt from Poetigress was "illumination," and my response to it forms chapter 44 in our continuing saga--I think the overall title's gonna be Neighbors, actually.

If you'd like to read the previous bits first, they are as follows:1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, and 43.

And then comes this one.

     Rolling home, using the key I'd forgotten I even had to 

unlock the side door, riding up in the elevator, spending what 

felt like half an hour convincing Serena that she had to sleep 

outside in the bougainvillea rather than tucked up in bed with 

me and El Brujo, muscling myself in and out of the shower before 

crawling into bed and finally closing my eyes for the night, I 

couldn't stop El Brujo's words from rattling around inside my 

head like the little ball in a can of spray paint.

     I mean, who was I to try bringing sense and stability into 

someone else's life?  Half-paralyzed, abandoned except for the 

checks Dad sent every month to pay for my upkeep here at 

Chrysalis House, my brain and nervous system either so tangled 

that I could communicate with animals more easily than people, 

or else so shredded that I simply imagined they were 

talking to me, and here I was thinking I could be helpful!

     "August," El Brujo's voice rumbled from the end of the bed.  

"Don't grind your teeth so.  It's quite disturbing."

Prospects

For those of you who may have joined us late, this is part 43 of an apparent 75-part saga the first 45 parts of which have been and will be inspired by the Thursday Prompt, soon to be running its course over at Poetigress's place. So, as you might surmise, there have been 42 previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, and 42.

This one, though, comes to us courtesy of the phrase "a friend in need."

     "Such an interesting question," El Brujo said, her grin so 

huge, she practically did a Cheshire Cat and vanished behind it.  

"Whom do you consider the cleverer species, August: dogs or 

squirrels?"

     Very aware of Serena clinging to my upper arm and Heather 

sitting in Deena's lap, their ears perking in a way I found both 

cute and menacing, I was forced to fall back into the last 

refuge of the scoundrel: literal honesty.  "I've never trained a 

dog before," I told Deena.

Sidestepping the Avalanche

Douglas Adams aside, this is part 42 of this whole big thing I'm doing inspired by the Thursday Prompt from Poetigress. That means there have been 41 previous installments, and they run as follows: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, and 41.

This week's prompt? "A battlefield."

     Between the two of them, Deena and Mr. Schwarber managed to 

lift my chair down the step into the living room.  "I'll get 

some plywood or something and put a ramp in," Mr. Schwarber 

said, straightening with a grunt.

     They both took seats, then, Deena on the couch again with 

Heather, the little dog's tail a happy blur, and her father in a 

brownish-yellowish recliner that I'm guessing didn't recline 

anymore, the way it had a couple chunks of two-by-four shoved in 

along the back edge.  I rolled across the carpet, its shag thick 

enough to pull at my wheels like damp grass, and fetched up on 

the other side of the coffee table from Deena, her smile making 

me feel--

     Well, making me feel, I guess, something I hadn't 

done among humans in a long, long time.  With animals, see, it's 

always a flood of emotion, like Heather with her boundless 

enthusiasm or El Brujo's layer of feline disdain over the depths 

of her love and devotion.  Humans, though--and I'll be the first 

to admit my experiences in this area aren't exactly average--

humans make everything much more a battlefield.

And Out the Other Side

So, again, the previous bits of all this are numbered 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, and 40. Which means this is the 41st in this series inspired by the Thursday Prompts over at Poetigress's place. This week's phrase was "every day."

     A sudden scrabbling of claws on wood somewhere behind me, 

and Heather's little yipping voice: "Mr. Augie's inside!  And 

the El Brujo kitty!  And my favorite squirrel friend Serena!  

Please, Deena's dad!  Let me in!  I'm all done pooping and 

peeing now!"

     Deena perked up.  "Dad, can you--?"

     "Here she comes," Mr. Schwarber said from the kitchen, 

and the creak of a door led immediately to a frantic clickety-

clickety-click across the linoleum.

     "Mr. Augie!  El Brujo!  Serena!"  Even in animal speech, 

Heather managed to make our names one continuous blur.  She 

streaked brownish-gold past my chair and sprang into Deena's 

arms.  "I'm so, so sorry that I had to go outside and away 

from you when you're feeling so sad!" the little dog cried out 

with each lick at Deena's face.  "I tried to hold my poop 

inside me, but it can get insistent!"

     Serena gave a grave little twitch of her ears, her first 

movement in what felt like hours.  "That is very true."

     El Brujo sighed.  "I'm learning so much today."

Reality

I'm ready to call this whole thing: it'll run 75 parts of which this is part 40. The previous parts are 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, and 39, and it's all being inspired week by week by the Thursday Prompt over at Poetigress's place. The word this week was "fall."

     Following Mr. Schwarber through the garage, I refused to 

let myself think about what might happen when I got inside.  "Be 

cautious," El Brujo had said, settled big as a throw pillow on 

my lap, and I knew she was right.  Worrying about what might 

happen was worse than useless because, well, it was less than 

the shadow of a passing breeze until it actually happened.  

     If, y'know, breezes had shadows...

     But, see, the thing was: Serena was right, too.  Still 

clinging to the front of my jacket, her tail jittering in rhythm 

with her words, she was muttering, "All will be well!  All will 

be well!" over and over again.  Blind baseless hope is one 

thing, but evidence-based optimism, that was something else.

Philosophy Galore

Of the projected 45 installments, this is number 39; it and the rest of 'em--1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, and 38--are all inspired by the word or phrase that Poetigress post each week as her Thursday Prompt. This week? The word "stray."

     Not more than two hours ago, traveling the stretch of 

sidewalk from the Schwarber's place to Chrysalis House, I'd been 

a shattered chunk of silence, darkness, and despair, a stray dog 

slinking through someone else's territory, half praying to make 

it through unscathed, half hoping for a quick death at the teeth 

of those who truly belonged here.

     But traveling the other way now?  It was still dark and 

silent, sure, the sun having set and none of those with me--Mr. 

Schwarber, El Brujo or Serena--saying anything.  But the lights 

in the houses we passed, I didn't look at them and see them 

mocking me, didn't feel the wall there anymore, the boundary 

that said, "We're inside; you're outside."

     I mean, the same houses, the same lights, the same cracks 

in the sidewalk under my wheels, but--

     Not the same.  Not the same at all.

Passing Inspection

As always, should any of your IM Force be caught or killed, the secretary--

Oops! Sorry! Wrong boilerplate!

What I meant to say was that, as always, the previous parts of this whole adventure serial inspired by Poetigress's Thursday Prompts can be found as follows: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, and 37.

This, then, is part 38. "The scandal" was the phrase that triggered it.

     Both Eric and Donna stood in the hallway when Deena's dad 

and I moved out of the office.  Donna stepped forward, the smile 

broad on her dark face, her hand outstretched.  "Mr. Schwarber?  

I'm Donna Basilone, the resident care manager here at Chrysalis 

House."

     They shook hands, and I tried not to panic.  I like Donna a 

lot, don't get me wrong, but when she's all dressed up in her 

business suit, the black tangles of her hair packed into a bun 

at the back of her head, she just exudes authority.  It's what 

you might call a very effective look: makes me think I'm about 

to be arrested every time I see it, at any rate...

     Add to that the way Eric was looking at Serena, and even 

though the squirrel was standing very nice and quiet in my lap, 

well, as I'd discovered, it was more the existence of the 

animals I brought into the house than their behavior that folks 

objected to.

Take Two

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, and 36 are the previous installments in our 45 part series inspired by the Thursday Prompt from Poetigress. This week's phrase was "trying again."

     The little warm spot against my chest exploded.  "Yes, yes, 

yes!" Serena chittered, squirming and writhing up my shirt till 

she popped out the collar of my jacket.  "Deena doesn't hate 

you!"  She scrambled from shoulder to shoulder across the back 

of my neck, her tail fluffing out to whap me first on one ear 

then the next.

     Mr. Schwarber was staring at this, let me tell you, and I 

did some scrambling of my own for something--anything!--that 

might sound even slightly reasonable.  "I...I'm still training 

her," was all I came up with.  Bringing a hand to my shoulder, I 

then asked in animal talk, "Serena?  Can you please be very, 

very polite for the next bunch of minutes and sit quietly on my 

hand?  Can you do that?"

     She grabbed several pawfuls of hair and scurried to stand 

on top of my head.  "I can do anything!" she announced.  

"Because I will be making you live happily ever after!"

Sweet and Sour

As this is the 36th of Poetigress's Thursday Prompts I've done--and the first where I've actually used the prompt itself as the title--1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34 and 35 are the links to the previous sections of the story. Feel free to avail yourself of them.

     Sometimes, I think my whole life has just been a process 

of getting me to slow down: running around like crazy when I 

was a kid, that first hitch in my step during first grade, my 

first wheelchair the middle of second grade.  But now, rolling 

into the waiting room of the physical therapists' office, it 

was like I'd plugged my brain into a wall socket.

     It only took two seconds to grab the door handle, pull it 

open, and slide from the hallway into the office, but in those 

two seconds, well, you know how they talk about your life 

flashing before your eyes when you're about to die?  

     And OK, sure, it wasn't like that--I mean, yes, 

part of me expected Deena's father to rear back and punch me 

in the nose, but it wasn't a very big or serious part.  It was 

more that I'd been slow for so long, had lived for ten years 

in the same rooms at Chrysalis House, had talked to the same 

people, had eaten the same food, had worn two little tire 

tracks around and around this same eight or ten block 

neighborhood till I might as well be a ghost or a wind-up toy.  

Slow and steady: that was me.

Prelude

As always, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33 and 34 are links to the previous sections of this story, all of them inspired by the word or phrase known as the Thursday Prompt, a weekly feature of Poetigress's place. This section, #35, comes from the phrase "behind closed doors."

     The second thoughts hit me on the way down in the elevator, 

me back in the chair, Serena tucked back inside my coat, El 

Brujo back draped over my lap.

     I mean, what if Deena's dad was there to punch me in 

the nose?  I could easily imagine the scene earlier this evening 

from his point of view: he's sitting in their living room 

feeling good about how Deena's first session with the councilors 

went, maybe thinking how helpful Gus, that odd little guy in the 

wheelchair had been, when the front door slams open and in 

rushes Deena, her little dog clenched to her chest, tears 

streaming from her eyes--

     Not that she'd actually been crying, of course.  At least 

she hadn't been when she'd turned and run, had left me staring 

after her out in front of their house, and she hadn't cried back 

when she'd slammed into her bedroom after I'd started asking 

about her museum, either.

Port in a Storm

And the saga just keeps on a-rolling!

This is the 34th installment in the story I'm writing in bits inspired by the Thursday Prompt that Poetigress offers the world every week. The previous bits are as follows--1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32 and 33--and there'll likely be more of 'em till I get the whole story told.

This week's Prompt was "the flag."

     Face first into my pillow: "Say it."

     A shuffling from the end of the bed.  "What would you have 

me say, August?"

     "You know what you want to say!"  I hadn't cried 

since spending that long, long night fifteen years ago pinned in 

the wreckage of--

     But I'm not gonna talk about that, not gonna think about 

it, didn't want to then, don't want to now.  All I'm gonna say 

is that even with everything that had just happened, I couldn't 

manage a single tear.

     Of course, El Brujo didn't say anything, hadn't said 

anything during the entire ride home, me rolling us mechanically 

away from Deena's house, away from the pebble I'd dropped on the 

sidewalk, the pebble Deena had refused--and not just refused but 

practically screamed at the sight of, run from it like I was 

offering her a handful of spiders or leeches.  

Sundown

This week's Thursday Prompt from Poetigress is the word "stones." And while there's really only one stone featured here, well, I won't tell if you won't.

I will, however, tell you that this is part 33 of a continuing saga the previous bits of which can be found in the following numeric-type order: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, and 32.

     So we spent an hour there in the Ramsays' front yard, and 

for once in my life, I didn't care if the neighbors called the 

police.  And by "didn't care," what I really mean is that 

I had my excuse all ready in case anyone came up and asked me 

what I was doing.

     "Just playing with the dogs," I would've said.

     The best thing, though, was that Traveler didn't seem to 

care.  The whole guard dog thing's very big for him, after all, 

the idea that he's there to protect the Ramsays' house and 

property and all.  That's why when they're home and I come 

rolling by, he makes it a point to bark at me like his only goal 

in life is to get over that fence and messily kill me for the 

good of all humanity.  He needs to show the world that he's 

serious about his job.

     He always feels bad about it afterwards, of course, and 

apologizes to me the next time he has the chance, but that 

evening, whether it was the whole pact we'd made earlier or just 

Heather's overwhelming puppiness rubbing off on us, we all plain 

stopped worrying about whatever it was we normally worried 

about.

Another Change of Plan

A new month, and we're still doing the old Thursday Prompt from Poetigress. This week? "The ceremony."

Previous week's prompts and the chapters they inspired are 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, and 31. Which makes this one #32!

     We were halfway to the park--which is only a couple blocks 

from Chrysalis House, really, so it wasn't like we were trekking 

to the far corners of the globe or anything--when Heather, 

leaning way out again from her perch on my knee like some tiny 

slobbering ship's figurehead --

     OK, that sentence got outta control.  Lemme try 

again.

     We were halfway to the park when Heather spun around from 

her perch on my knee, her tongue sucking back into her mouth and 

her eyes going wide: two wet black pebbles peering out from the 

cascades of her fur.  "No, Mr. Augie!  No!"

     I half-expected her to go on and call me a 'bad AugieDog,' 

but when she didn't, I stopped the wheelchair, patted her gently 

between her ears, and asked, "What exactly are we negating, 

Heather?"

     "The park!"  She galloped up my thigh and pressed her 

velvetty paws to my lowest ribs.  "Serena!  How can we possibly 

go to the park and play our chasing each other game when it 

means Mr. Augie and the pretty El Brujo kitty won't have 

anything to do??"

     El Brujo's ears twitched from where she lay covering most 

of my other thigh.  "Believe me, Heather, when I say that my 

interest in chasing either you or the ever so crunchy but almost 

entirely inedible Miss Serena is best characterized as 

vanishingly small."

Dog Sitting

This week's Thursday Prompt from Poetigress was the word "invisible." The previous things I've done based on her prompts are, in chronological order, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, and 30. Which means this is #31, I reckon.

     Now, I don't know if anyone's paying that close attention 

to the whole story unfolding in these little dispatches, but if 

you are, maybe you've noticed by now that I'm kind of an idiot a 

lot of the time.  

     But pretty near the top of the list as far as stupid things 

I've done--and I'd even put it high on a list that includes all 

the stupid things I'm likely to do in the future, too--is the 

line I spoke to Heather as we watched Deena and her dad step 

into the Chrysalis House lobby.  "She's the bravest person I've 

ever met," I said about Deena, and because I'm trying to be 

straight up honest in all this stuff, I have to admit I said it 

without a single twinge of irony.

     Because if there's one thing I've hated all these years 

I've been riding this wheelchair, it's the way some people put 

me up on a pedestal for no reason other than that my legs don't 

work anymore.  But since I've ranted about this already, I won't 

take up any more space.  Just suffice it to say that it drives 

me crazy when people assume that I'm so much braver and nobler 

and better than anybody else for no reason other than the chair.

The Hero's Journey

As we reach the 30th installment in this series inspired by the Thursday Prompts over at Poetigress's place, I would remind folks that this logically indicates there musta been 29 previous installments. Specifically, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, and 29. Use this info as you see fit.

This 30th, though, comes from the phrase "taking a stand."

     Which was how, after what seemed like weeks even though it 

was less than half an hour, we all finally started off under the 

clear blue of an early summer evening: Deena and her father 

walking ahead of me, his hands in his pockets, hers fiddling 

with the sleeves of her windbreaker, me rolling along behind, El 

Brujo and Heather in my lap, Serena on my shoulder.

     A light cackling from the big ficus between the street and 

the sidewalk just outside the front gate, though, told me that 

wasn't all of us, too.  "You need air support, 'Mano?" Jefe's 

scratchy voice asked.

     But before I could answer,--  "In the trees!" Heather 

barked, leaping and spinning from her spot beside El Brujo, her 

paws barely reaching halfway up my chest, her eyes big and black 

and shiny.  "Thousands of them, Mr. Augie!  But I'll protect 

you!  I'll tear out their throats, soak my fur in their blood 

till it's even redder than--"

Yet Another First Step

Part 29 here is inspired by the phrase "in the old days" given out by Poetigress as part of her Thurday Prompt program. The installment is preceded by 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 1-6, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, and 28, so feel free to check out the earlier bits if you'd like for this one to make any sense.

     "I need to brush my hair," Deena said, fidgeting with the 

sleeves of her windbreaker.

     "You already have."  Her father pushed her gently onto the 

front porch and closed the door.  "Three times since supper, 

actually."

     She managed about half a glare at him.  "Proper personal 

hygiene is very important."

     I was sitting in my chair at the end of the driveway, El 

Brujo in my lap.  "I do so enjoy," she said, the slightest bit 

of a purr behind her words, "watching human relationships.  

You're such fascinating creatures."

     "On behalf of the species, I thank you."  Though to tell 

the truth, I couldn't take my eyes off Deena and her father, 

either.  And sure, some of that was because I was completely 

smitten with her--seeing her break down and pull herself back 

together again had been like an arrow right through my heart, 

and all I wanted to do with the rest of my life at that point 

was whatever I could to keep her from ever breaking down again.

Cracks in the Concrete

To imbibe of the previous installments of this whole story-thing I'm writing in response to the Thursday Prompts provided each week by Poetigress, simply click on one of the following numbers: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, and 27.

This 28th, then, comes from the phrase for Sept. 1, "sacred ground."

     I stared at the door Deena had just slammed behind herself 

and couldn't help but feel that I'd just failed some test or 

other, that I should just grab my wheel rims and roll myself 

right back through the kitchen and the garage and out of her 

life.

     "Ah," came a voice behind me, and I slewed around to see 

her father standing there, drying his hands with a dishtowel.  

"I'm guessing you asked something about the museum."

     A glance sideways showed me the little rack, various things 

that would qualify as maybe either tchotchkes or keepsakes 

decorating its shelves.  "I did," was all I said because I 

really didn't want to think about the way I'd probably insulted 

her in every possible way.

     "Deena's past," her father said, and I looked back at him, 

younger than the picture that flashed so horribly through my own 

thoughts at the mention of the word 'father.'  "Part of it's 

sacred ground, and the rest of it's a minefield.  Either way, 

it's usually best not to go walking around in it."

Grinding to a Halt

Our usual table of contents--1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, and 26--and then we're on to #27 in our continuing saga inspired by the Thursday Prompt over at Poetigress's place. The phrase this week was "half and half."

     It turned out there was just enough room between their van 

and the garage wall for me to squeeze through with only a few 

backing-and-filling moments.  I could almost smell how much 

Deena, standing behind me as I worked my way in, wanted to ask 

if she could help, and for maybe the first time in my life, I 

wouldn't've minded it.

     She didn't, though, but I was so nervous, I said, "I'm 

fine" anyway.

     The door from the garage into the house was open, yellowing 

linoleum visible through it, and I rolled into a sort of laundry 

hallway.  Too narrow to be a room, it ran along the other side 

of the garage's back wall, a washer and dryer pretty much 

filling every available inch.  

     To my right, though, the hallway led into the kitchen, 

Deena's father standing at the sink washing some dishes, the 

smell of spaghetti sauce filling the air.  "Evening, Gus," her 

father said.  His gaze dropped to El Brujo, spread out over my 

lap, and I started to tense up.  Did he like cats?  What if he 

told me she couldn't come inside?  How would I manage this whole 

thing without her??

The Tour Begins

Our table of contents at this point looks like this: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, and 25. Feel free to use it to visit the previous installments.

As for this installment, it comes from the phrase "the museum," given to the world at large by Poetigress as part of her Thursday Prompt program.

     The spell was broken by El Brujo, of course, smacking me in 

the nose with her tail.  "A wave, perhaps?  Or even--dare I say 

it?--a vocal salutation of some sort?"

     But Deena spoke up first.  "Hi, Gus!"

     It took me a couple seconds, but I did manage to flail a 

hand at her and even--dare I say it?--squeezed out the word, 

"Hi!"

     She flipped the ball over her shoulder, Heather scrambling 

after with little canine shouts of, "I got it!  I got it!"  

     "You're early," Deena said while Heather leaped onto the 

ball and commenced wrestling with it: she wasn't that much 

larger than the thing, actually.  "You...you wanna come in?  

Dad's still finishing up the dishes."

Calling

As always, here's the previous installments: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, and 24. And now, on with the 25th bit of story inspired by Poetigress's Thursday Prompts! This week, the word is "golden."

     And so it was that, with half an hour to roll a block and a 

half, I set forth into the early evening's twilight from the 

Ramsays' side yard with a cat in my lap, a squirrel in my coat, 

and a crow riding each shoulder.  How it is that no one called 

the cops--or at least animal control--I'll never know; I guess 

everyone was inside watching TV.

     Traveler sent some final words of advice after us as he 

pushed the gate closed: "Remember, August, that silence is only 

golden if it's you with your mouth closed while she answers a 

question you've asked her about herself.  Be interested and 

interesting, and all will be well!"

     I waved to him, grabbed the wheel rims, and slewed the 

chair forward.  "I still say we should've found a way to bring 

him along," I muttered.

     El Brujo's ears flicked.  "If you're hoping to dazzle Deena 

with your lightning wit, August, I fear we shall all end 

this night soaking in disappointment."

One More Step

The phrase this week in Poetigress's Thursday Prompt was "cool water." Since this is the 24th installment in this continuing adventure serial, you might care to get caught up by perusing 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, and 23.

     "How 'bout this?" I said, cutting Traveler's methodology 

discussion off as quickly as I figured was polite because, 

well, being polite to Dobermans has always been high on my 

list of things to do.  "We've only got, like, two hours here, 

so maybe we could, I don't know, focus on some specifics?"

     "Please," Jefe croaked.  "Things get any more general 

around here, I'm gonna hafta start saluting."

     Honoria smacked him with a wing.

     Traveler nodded.  "I understand completely.  The budding 

stage of any romance is as delicate as the gentlest flower.  

Tell me, then, what you have planned for this first date of 

yours."

     That made El Brujo raise her head.  "Date?"  She looked 

over at the two crows, her ears flicking.  "I don't know what 

you may have been told, Traveler, about August's situation, 

but one would scarcely categorize tonight's goings-on as a 

date."  She even held her front paws up, popping her claws and 

wiggling them to make air quotes around the word 'date,' 

something I'd never seen her do before.

Taking the Pledge

Once again, for folks who wanna get caught up, the previous installments in this series are 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, and 22. This, then is #23, and as usual, it's inspired by this week's Thursday Prompt over at Poetigress's place. This time, the phrase was "the bottle."

     "We need a controlling metaphor," Traveler said, and El 

Brujo's groan wasn't the only one I heard.

     We'd managed--or I guess I should say I'd managed--

to get out the front gate, down the ramp, and onto the street 

without my brain trying any more tricks to kill me, and then it 

was a quick slide down the hill to the Ramsays' place, the 

afternoon full of blue skies and fleecy clouds.  The Ramsays 

weren't home, of course: for all the years I'd been rolling 

around the neighborhood, I'd only ever seen them there about one 

day a month.

     Just as well, though.  Whenever they are home, 

Traveler feels he has to snarl and bark at everyone going by, 

and I know he wouldn't've let me undo the gate latch with a 

cautious look 'round and wheel myself, El Brujo and Serena into 

their yard if we hadn't been alone.  "Jefe and Honoria are 

already here," the doberman had said.

     Which had made Brujo blink.  "Honoria?"

     The crow herself had hopped around from the back of the 

garage, then, her larger brother behind her.  "Yes," she'd said,  

"What, you think I'm gonna stand by and let you tontos foul this 

whole thing up??"

Flashback

Our table of contents these days is as follows: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, and 21. This one, then, is the 22nd of our visits to the Neighborhood inspired by the Thursday Prompt over at Poetigress's place, slightly delayed due to Comic-Con. It's from July 21st, and the word was "broken."

     Rolling out of the house that afternoon, I felt like the 

villain in a spy movie, El Brujo draped across my lap looking as 

innocent as only a fluffy black cat can--not very, in other 

words--and Serena quivering against my chest, her claws little 

pinpricks through the thin material of my shirt.

     A line from some TV show popped into my head--"Where I come 

from, they hang a man for sheet stealing!  Or was that sheep?"--

and I flashed back to the absolute last place I wanted to be: 

the Newport Coast house as a seven-year-old, Mom and Dad and 

Lizzie and--

     The reaction froze me solid as usual, my hands locking onto 

the wheelchair rims, my fingers crooking into things more like 

claws.  I couldn't breathe, of course, or rather, I could 

breathe, but my lungs scraped the inside of my chest like rough-

cut balls of splintery wood, tiny jabs of pain slicing up and 

down me as fine as razor blades.

Change of Venue

So! After 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, and 20 comes #21, based on Poetigress's last Thursday Prompt, the words "the room."

     "So," El Brujo continued, "our second goal--"

     But I interrupted her.  "Sorry, Bru, but we can't--"

     "Can't??"  Jefe slapped a wing against my pillow case.  

"That's a word we don't use, 'Mano!"

     I rolled my eyes at him.  "Fine.  But--"

     "No 'buts,'" Honoria said.  She'd settled onto the sleeping 

bag at the end of the bed beside El Brujo, their respective 

feathers and fur sleek and black against the dark green.  "You 

gotta think positive you wanna get this lady!"

     "I know.  I just--"

     "No!"  Seena leaped from the bedpost to land in my lap, her 

little claws digging into my shirt front, her tail frizzing up 

behind her head, her beady black eyes fixed on mine.  "We will 

not allow any unhappy thoughts to cloud your brain, Mr. Augie!  

We will see you through to happiness no matter what forces 

attempt to prevent it!"