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."