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."