What's on Your Writering Mind?
Just when I think I am not going to compromise, I do.
Lucky are the few who never have to, or should that be too?
Compromise, a tendency so strong I am confused.
Is it about having my way, winning or being sore?
I prefer not to sit down to dinner at 4:30 or 5PM, but I do,
Because it suits you!
There is so much more to compromise, you haven’t a clue
Do you?
I was the last passenger to arrive and quickly slid into the remaining seat on the bus. The driver closed the door, check both side mirrors for traffic then pulled out of the driveway of Betty’s Shuttle Bus Service. Although It was an eight-passenger van, there were seven of us. The man behind me took up two seats. I wondered if he had paid for two, making the fifty-mile trip to the airport express, or if we would be topping along the way to pick up a finale passenger. The girl next to him, a Laura Dern lookalike, squirmed in her thin body staring out the window.
At 6:35 AM, the sun was just rising and promised a hot day.
In the way back was a teenager dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, plugged into his cell with an mostly empty backpack on his lap. Along side of him could be his girlfriend or sister. They pushed against each other with their arms in a familiar but not too happy manner. The passengers in the middle seat, significantly older, could be a couple; a man and woman about the same age looking like each other.
No one spoke as the radio blared Kenny Rogers’ song, “Know When to Hold Them.”
However, heads began to shake disapprovingly with a news report of President Donald Trump’s latest tweet. The lead in; Trump lashes out again at Morning Joe host.
The elderly man in the middle seat removed his Yankee baseball cap, scratched his head, and turned to the woman along side of him, “What is wrong with that man?” he asked.
She crossed her arms around her thick waist and gave her breasts a supportive boost, “I don’t even know what a tweet is, but I’m embarrassed for him.”
“He’s a bully!” The Laura Dern lookalike stated emphatically.
The man taking up two seats wiped rolling down beads of sweat from his brow with a dirty cloth handkerchief with a grunt.
The kid way back removed his ear buds and called out, “Dudes, Trump’s cool, that’s what people do, no worries.”
I rummaged through my tote bag looking for nothing.
. . . . Seriously Just Saying
Remember the days of mushy white wonder bread spread with margarine and sprinkled with real sugar, that was a snack after we changed out of school clothes into play clothes (woolen Jamaica shorts, argyle socks and white Keds.
It was the time of hot dogs, English muffin pizza, Bologna sandwiches, cool aid, powdered milk, and the introduction of frozen vegetables.
My all time favorite snack, however, was crackers smeared with gooey peanut butter and of course grape jelly.
Today I indulged in that with an afternoon cup of coffee and found myself in heaven.
. . . Seriously just saying
There is something appealing, soothing about the cardboard cup in my hand. The container dressed in army green with a crisp white lid appears dignified. A dirt brown cuff wrapped around its middle protects my fingers and palm from the too hot content. The walk from the coffee station to a comfortable table and chair looks to be an easy task but is not when my handbag slips off my shoulder. The strap lands in the crook of my elbow, I tighten my hand around the paper cuff which pops open the lid and hot liquid slides down its crisp exterior threatening to scald my hand. I rush to the nearest table fearing what would come next, that is when we met.
I walk into the coffee shop a strong whiff of coffee descends and I am in heaven. There is no other way to describe the effect and close my eyes inhale the aroma. My chest expands savoring the moment, and then with relaxed shoulders I join a line of customers. The line is not long.
A voice behind a “Flavor of the Season” sign calls out, “Sara, frozen latte extra whip cream.” A woman steps to the counter with a receipt in hand, “That’s me but I want a frozen latte with extra caramelized whipped cream.” Her emphasis on caramelized is exaggerate.
I study the iced plastic container with a sleek black straw poked into its dome cover as it is set aside and search my senses for a hint of coffee.
The line is not getting shorter but longer behind me.
I hear the cashier take orders for a Cappuccino, a Frappuccino (whatever that is), several Smoothies and a Latte Macchiato, and believe I am next in line when she announces her break.
The customer line is now out the door the strong coffee aroma diluted. Be patient I tell myself thinking I may have caffeine withdrawal when I am called and order, “A regular cup of coffee.”
“Tall or Grande?”
I want to tell her to just shut-up, hurry up and get me a cup of coffee but do not. I smile, “Tall, please.”
“Would you care for a Croissant, Scone, Cheese Danish or Cinnamon Morning Bun?”
“No, just coffee! I’ve been standing in line for thirty minutes I want a cup of coffee, not a Latte, Cappuccino, Espresso, Caffé Misto, or Green Tea. I just want a cup of coffee.”
. . . . Seriously Just Saying
Suspicious? Yes, she is suspicious and had been for a while. There is that little twinkle in his eye when he smiles, and he smiles more checking a mirror constantly for food stuck in his teeth. The other day he said, “I’m thinking of whiting them.”
She hears the outside door slam as he bounds up the steps to announce, “I’m home.”
“I heard you coming.” She replies and pulls the sheer window cover aside. A most attractive woman is standing in the rain. The young female, wearing a spaghetti strap dress its fabric absorbing the sudden downpour, is twirling a large black umbrella. She has a Mona Lisa smile and dancer calf’s.
“Come have a look, this woman has to be freezing and how can she walk in those heels?”
“Only to make you happy. I have better things to do.” He says hanging his jacket on a coat hook near the door.
Together they peer out the water-speckled pane of glass his hands on her shoulders. “That’s Mrs. Dash.”
“Mrs. Dash, as in the salt replacement. You know her?”
“Yea, Mrs. Dash as in replace the salt. I don’t know if she owns the company, but she is your new neighbor.”
. . . . . Seriously Just saying
Photographer: ДмитрийВладимирович
The sunlight filters through the slots in a wooden blind and reveals what was not seen before. The five o’clock sun makes the dust and single strands of blonde hair twinkle on the dark pine floor. There are some pencil shavings and itsy -bitsy pieces of paper She grabs a sweeper from the closet. It is lightweight, less than three pounds, reminds one of a dust-buster but has a long handle and is more powerful. She vacuums intensely conscious of the fading light outlining the evidence. When the sun is gone, her shoulders relax and she sighs. Is a dirt house a crime?
Chicken Coop Devastation
The wind howled in anticipation. The chickens squawked necks jerking forward then back pecking at unseen danger, their skinny claws raking the dry brown ground. Molly raised her head, called into the sky; “Lord, Lord save us from devastation.”
As the wind threatened to raise her skirt high, she lured the chickens inside the coop wondering if it would make a difference; if anything made a difference.
The lone road leading to the house was empty. Skip probably not on the way back probably headed towards that other woman who brought them havoc.
Molly knew something was going on from the first “Meet the Teacher” night. Skip had showered, shaved and wore the right fit jeans. Molly teased him, “You spruced up, feels like we’re going on a date.”
She knew because his eyes locked with Ms. Jenny’s as they stood in the doorway, before his hand casually brushed the third grade teacher during a meeting folder exchange.
She had been vandalized, came upon a locked box previously hidden in the attic floorboards empty, the jewelry and money inside taken by someone she love. Her heart demolished and destroyed.
The weather alert sounded and Molly tucked herself inside the chicken coop praying, “Lord, Lord save us from devastation.”
. . . . Seriously Just Saying
“It was an oversight!” He responds the sole of his shoe crushing the rug binding.
“An oversight? How can you say that?” She answers, drying her hands on a kitchen towel. “You know my concern. To you it’s silly, but will make a difference.” She monitors her voice and hangs the towel to dry.
“A difference, I’m walking here . . . in my house and now need to pay attention to every step I take? A march on Washington makes a difference . . . side-stepping a rug, not so much.”
“Don’t dismiss me. You heard the difference yesterday. Remember? Traffic patterns, wearing down carpet and it you simply walk on the wood floor we won’t have to replace the living room rug in five years.”
“No I don’t remember, I’ll be dead in five years, am I not more important than a rug?”
“Of course you’re more important than the carpet, it’s inexpensive. But it’s not only the rug. You don’t listen, disregard what I say, and ignore my feelings.”
He interrupts, “Okay, because I inadvertently walked on the carpet I now don’t care what you think or feel?”
“You could say that. Actions speak louder than words.” Her arms are folded across her chest.
“It was an oversight, I walk crooked and stepped on the carpet when, as you explained, easily could have stayed on the wood floor, call me careless.”
“Did you call me careless when I inadvertently didn’t park the car in the center of the driveway?”
“That is unfair. You know why that is important; the sprinkler system goes on and tarnishes the car’s hubcaps. It wasn’t an oversight that you forgot again and again.”
“There was no rust.”
“ There is no dirt.”
“Yet.”
He looks down at his large size twelve foot and smiles.
. . . . Seriously Just Saying
Seriously Just Saying 
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