Thursday's 3 Word Wednesday
The prompts over at 3 Word Wednesday are glass, question and token. I even like this one:
Side Affects May Include, But Not Limited To…
I blast out the front door, the screen slams (even though I’ve been warned about that a bazillion times) and skid to a stop.
My dad is sprawled in mother’s swath of wax begonias; her victories, the pizzazz series, the ambassadors, even the challengers. He’s got a tall glass of iced tea balanced precariously on his chest; sweat droplets collect on his bare skin, cling to his going-gray hair.
His feet are muddy; creamy dirt has squished through his toes and the air is heavy with the smell of soil, water, broken petals. He’s wearing a pair of tortoiseshell Wayfarers and that dreamy smile he sometimes gets when the bottle of special tequila is allowed out of the freezer.
His tan chinos are rolled to the knees; muddy handprints dot the thighs, bizarre camouflage amidst the broke and bending begonias. Bits of decorative bark cling to what’s left of the clippered hair above his ears.
“Dude, what the hell,” I say, more a question than a statement. “Mom is seriously going to pitch a fit.”
He bends his head forward and tries to take a long pull of the iced tea; ice and tea make twin streams around his chin and pool in the hollow of his Adam’s apple. He snorts, laughs and wipes a hand across his face that leaves a smear, like sludge lipstick.
The Wayfarers are cocked awkwardly on his face; he sticks his tongue out at me. He smiles, yawns.
“Hey, oh, I’ve got something for you,” he says and waves a drunken hand from a drunken wrist.
He shakes a bit and the small, waxed canister falls from his front pocket.
A token of youth.
A can of red-capped Play-Doh.
“Take a whiff,” he says. “You will seriously not be disappointed.”
Side Affects May Include, But Not Limited To…
I blast out the front door, the screen slams (even though I’ve been warned about that a bazillion times) and skid to a stop.
My dad is sprawled in mother’s swath of wax begonias; her victories, the pizzazz series, the ambassadors, even the challengers. He’s got a tall glass of iced tea balanced precariously on his chest; sweat droplets collect on his bare skin, cling to his going-gray hair.
His feet are muddy; creamy dirt has squished through his toes and the air is heavy with the smell of soil, water, broken petals. He’s wearing a pair of tortoiseshell Wayfarers and that dreamy smile he sometimes gets when the bottle of special tequila is allowed out of the freezer.
His tan chinos are rolled to the knees; muddy handprints dot the thighs, bizarre camouflage amidst the broke and bending begonias. Bits of decorative bark cling to what’s left of the clippered hair above his ears.
“Dude, what the hell,” I say, more a question than a statement. “Mom is seriously going to pitch a fit.”
He bends his head forward and tries to take a long pull of the iced tea; ice and tea make twin streams around his chin and pool in the hollow of his Adam’s apple. He snorts, laughs and wipes a hand across his face that leaves a smear, like sludge lipstick.
The Wayfarers are cocked awkwardly on his face; he sticks his tongue out at me. He smiles, yawns.
“Hey, oh, I’ve got something for you,” he says and waves a drunken hand from a drunken wrist.
He shakes a bit and the small, waxed canister falls from his front pocket.
A token of youth.
A can of red-capped Play-Doh.
“Take a whiff,” he says. “You will seriously not be disappointed.”
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Gemma