what is a squiggle?

According to fifth-grade teacher Mrs. Hill, a squiggle is a beginning point, a small, wiggly line on a page with the potential to become something more--a brilliantly drawn fifth-grade picture!



A beginning point. A silly phrase from my preschooler, my teenager rolling his eyes, or my kindergartner deleting my entire 3rd chapter...



Friday, April 13, 2012

Scripture Squiggle: Matthew 25:29

"For unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance: but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath."


Not wanting to have my talents taken away from me, but rather wanting to increase them, I've decided that for today's blog, I will participate in LDS Publisher's writing prompt.

So, here is what I came up with:


Hilary paused in her sweeping and raised her head slightly so the gentle autumn breeze could dance across her wrinkled face.  She closed her eyes as the cool fingers of the wind caressed her cheeks, listening to the crinkling sound of cottonwood leaves skittering across the patio.

Time to start planning my winter trip to Phoenix.

After a moment, she hefted her broom and returned to her task of clearing the red brick patio of dust, debris and gathering leaves. 

Red brick?

Glancing at the skyline, Hilary saw faint purple mountains in the distance, framed by the faded blue of the desert sky, not the tree-lined ridges that pushed close to her small house in Oregon.  Directly in front of her was the gray wall that separated her son's swimming pool from the rest of the yard, not her round, above ground pool sitting open on the welcoming green lawn.   She released the broom, watched it fall and clatter onto the red bricks, not her wooden deck.

Her legs felt weak as she shuffled over to the wooden picnic table by the door, its checkered table cloth held in place by a variety of large rocks.

Phoenix?  How long have I been here?

She couldn't remember.  She tried and tried and tried, but she couldn't even remember what she had done the day before, or what day it was, or whether she'd had grapefruit or French toast for breakfast.
 
At least I know my name.  Hilary Grosberg.  And I'm...I'm...how old am I?

Hilary leaned her elbows on the table and rested her forehead on her hands.  She breathed in short, panicked gulps, and her heart began to pound a crazy rhythm against her chest.  Then she felt something furry rub against her leg.

"Beast!"  She scooped the gray tabby kitty onto her lap.  "You always know when Mama needs you."  She stroked his soft fur, enjoying the humming rumble of his purring.

The cat raised his head, looking at Hilary and mewed.  She held him up so she could gaze into his blue eyes.  "Now, Beast..."

Blue eyes?  Beast's were brown.

In disbelief, Hilary set the cat back down on the ground.  He rubbed his head against her leg a few times, but when she didn't respond he sat back to lick his paws.

Hilary stood up and walked slowly to the door that led to her room at her son's house.  She paused with her hand on the knob, her attention caught by a pile of rotting boards shoved in the corner against the fence that lined the property.   With her free hand, she touched her wrinkled, weather-worn cheeks, her coarse gray-white hair.

Crumbling.  Useless.  No better than a pile of forgotten wood.

1 comment:

  1. That was great! And sad. Wonderful sense of place.

    ReplyDelete