Sunday Scribblings: 'Listen up, because this is important'
The Sunday Scribblings prompt presented a challenge.
“What pressing matter do you have weighing on your mind? What would you like to say to someone? What would you like to say to the world? Or to yourself? What do you think is important enough to make people listen? What would make you say:
‘Listen up because this is important.’ ”
Attention Span
Dad burst into the soddie, nearly knocks the wooden door off its leather hinges; there’s an arrow sticking from the meaty part of his shoulder.
Mother jumps from the table, upsets the breakfast biscuits on a pewter plate, and rushes to get the mortise and pestle to grind up a poultice.
“Comancheros,” dad says. “Sneaky bastards attacked at daylight. We never stood a chance.”
He grips the arrow, wiggles it free.
Mother puts a hand to her lips, the other to her breast; her skin grows white. She recovers quickly and attends to the ragged, bloody wound, packing it tight with a mix of slippery elm bark and flax seed.
She pours dad a healthy shot of whiskey in a wooden cup, which he downs in a single twitch of his Adam's Apple.
“How much time?” she asks.
“Minutes, an hour maybe, hard to tell.”
I stare into my cornmeal mush.
Dad nudges my shoulder with a dirty hand, black soil and blood under the fingernails. There’s a letter in his clenched fist.
“You want to explain this?”
With my left hand, I pull the buds out from my ears with a pop; a decent baseline sends a cascading hip-hop soundtrack over the breakfast dishes. Sheepishly, I try to smile. Mother shakes her head, silent, runs fingers across her forehead.
Dad clears his throat.
“Listen up, because this is important.”
His features go hazy, out-of-focus. He starts into his lecture and I think:
“Ma’s gonna have a fit, he gets that wound to leaking again.”
“What pressing matter do you have weighing on your mind? What would you like to say to someone? What would you like to say to the world? Or to yourself? What do you think is important enough to make people listen? What would make you say:
‘Listen up because this is important.’ ”
Attention Span
Dad burst into the soddie, nearly knocks the wooden door off its leather hinges; there’s an arrow sticking from the meaty part of his shoulder.
Mother jumps from the table, upsets the breakfast biscuits on a pewter plate, and rushes to get the mortise and pestle to grind up a poultice.
“Comancheros,” dad says. “Sneaky bastards attacked at daylight. We never stood a chance.”
He grips the arrow, wiggles it free.
Mother puts a hand to her lips, the other to her breast; her skin grows white. She recovers quickly and attends to the ragged, bloody wound, packing it tight with a mix of slippery elm bark and flax seed.
She pours dad a healthy shot of whiskey in a wooden cup, which he downs in a single twitch of his Adam's Apple.
“How much time?” she asks.
“Minutes, an hour maybe, hard to tell.”
I stare into my cornmeal mush.
Dad nudges my shoulder with a dirty hand, black soil and blood under the fingernails. There’s a letter in his clenched fist.
“You want to explain this?”
With my left hand, I pull the buds out from my ears with a pop; a decent baseline sends a cascading hip-hop soundtrack over the breakfast dishes. Sheepishly, I try to smile. Mother shakes her head, silent, runs fingers across her forehead.
Dad clears his throat.
“Listen up, because this is important.”
His features go hazy, out-of-focus. He starts into his lecture and I think:
“Ma’s gonna have a fit, he gets that wound to leaking again.”
Comments
You are so bloody good at these things. You really ought to compile them in little books with a good heft and nice leather. Things for people to muse on. Get artists to do paintings or images for each one.
I really love what you do in just a few short sentences. In the space of a few centimeters of paper a world a motive a character a feeling an instant an experience is born, and with you, likely dies.
I would love to have them on paper.
I am thinking that these should be published.
With me? Richard's poetry, too.
Tshcuess,
Chris