Tag: 100 words

The Brother of Invention

Our campsite--without my brother's addition.
One of our campsites–without my brother’s addition.

For years we slept together in one tent,

All six of us

Plus cat and dog.

As the youngest, I was tucked into the seams, farthest from the snoring heap of dad…

An unfortunate location on rainy nights.

When he hit high school, middle brother learned to sew.

Out of ripstop nylon and seam-sealer, he carved a modicum of personal space for the hours between dish duty and daybreak.

Groggy and stiff from hugging the lumpy terrain, we drank Tang out of Solo cups, stamped our feet to keep warm, and crammed back into the Chevy for the next 500 miles.

From www.etsy.com
From Happy Fortune Vintage on http://www.etsy.com

Potluck: A Brief Horror Story

From Wikipedia
From Wikipedia

The word potluck makes me anxious, even now that I am old enough to have scheduling conflicts.

I can still feel the warm weight of paper plates sagging precariously in my hands,

Odd juices running together as I make my way

Across gray, industrial tiles,

Fluorescent lights blazing upon:

Norwegian Chop Suey

Potato salad slathered in Miracle Whip and pickle relish

Jello with grated carrots and cottage cheese

Fruit salad with Cool Whip and marshmallows

Hamburger Helper

Broccoli with Cheez Whiz

“Hot Dish”

Anything involving a can of cream of something soup

Or canned peas

And then, at the end,

Mincemeat pie.

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In case you’re wondering “Wait! What’s wrong with pie?”…let me assure you that real mincemeat pie involves meat. Like rump steak and beef suet. As well as piles of sugar and raisins. Don’t believe me? Click here for a recipe.

Seventh Grade

Summers were the antidote
For wounds inflicted by the words and silence
Of the cruelest people I know:
Children,
Blissfully unaware of empathy or mercy.

I donned a skirt I’d never worn–
Ill-fitting, handmade, and hand-me-downed–
Perhaps an attempt to play a different role in this year’s performance.

It was inappropriate armor for my return to battle.

On the front porch,
My father tried to coax a smile,
Or at least turn my sullen gaze toward the camera.

From there, I walked alone,
Clutching a bag lunch and a binder
Too grown to admit fear
Past the smokers
And knots of cool kids
To the front doors.