The widow, Althea, put her false teeth in a glass of Mosel wine, wondering if the alcohol might burn off the yellow stains. Althea refused to use Polident, preferring to eschew all symbols of old age. Except the wig (horrible hair was her inheritance from her late father’s side), which she stubbornly wore in shades of hot pink champagne. At 86 she no longer cared what people thought, in fact, she enjoyed the whispered comments–it was her way of socializing.
Most times she sat at her first floor bedroom window, in her favorite comfy chair, covered with her white chennelle throw, waiting to see if any animals emerged from the woods that edged her lot. She tossed leftovers up close to the woods, but while the raccoons, squirrels, and birds liked most of it, none of them would eat her lasagna. It sat there, rejected, refused, and rotting. Hopeless.
The momma wolf took pity on Althea, knowing the many ways the old were stuck coping with the crummy outlook of their last days. The momma wolf had recently been shoved aside by a younger female plus that pink wig in the window was rather intriguing. Momma took a dainty bite of old lasagna and gagged. She walked up to Althea’s window and shook her head. Althea toasted the wolf with a glass of white wine, wondering if she invite the wolf in.
Althea opened the window and set out a bowl of wine for the wolf. Momma moved closer and took a sniff. Fruit? She lapped up the whole bowl, giggled, ran in a circle, and burped. Althea put her pink wig on the momma’s head and poured more wine for both.
Quick note: My novel, The Old Powers, is available on Amazon in Kindle or paperback format. The Old Powers is the prequel to Rites of Glory, so if you’re curious about the histories of the characters, it will fill out your understanding.
These are fantasy novels, but I refused to let myself be stuck in the notion that there are good guys with evil to overcome. It was much more fun to explore what motivates someone who ends up committing evil deeds, but who isn’t “bad.”
The good guys are flawed as well. Aren’t we all?
Stanley Berpsmog spent a lot of time in his room to escape his mean older sister, seven year old Bertha. Not that his room was all that interesting. She had already broken all his toys she could get her hands on.
He lay on his stomach on his bottom sheet, having kicked all of the rest of his bedding to the floor. Now he threw his pillow on the floor too. He would have liked to punch someone.
But hmmm. His bottom sheet had an interesting hole in it about the size of red grape. He stuck his finger in the hole. It was warm. No, it was hot!
I’m sure you have some too. What are they?
Need more grammar practice? Here’s a site where you can get one-on-one instruction from a grammar expert.
Many of you wonder if you should have a professional editor. I recommend it! Here is one who I’ve worked with who is stellar.
You’ll love her.
Some phrases just roll off the tongue. I like “rolled oats” because of the long “O” in both words. In fact it inspired me to see if I could extend it. This is good practice for poets since the sounds of words in poetry is so important. Here’s mine. You try one too.
Lonesome Jones owns forty glorious rolled oat stores for those poor bores ordering s’mores.
I waltzed out of the local grocery store, pushing a cart full of bags and shoved them in the back of my Honda Fit. I slid into the driver’s seat and then huffed in annoyance. A folded flyer was stuck under the windshield wiper. I yanked open the door, balanced on my left leg, and reached around to pull the flyer loose. I unfolded it and read the large Times New Roman bold letters:
“The earth is shifting beneath you.”