WPW: Scratching

See Ali's blog for the guidelines for Writing Prompt Wednesday.



The scratching started up again. Under the sink. Where the huge bag of dog kibble was stored. I told him to buy one of those big Rubbermaid tubs to put it in. But no.

I reached back and smoothed the hairs on the back of my neck, the ones that stood up whenever I was scared. I knew what made the noise. Recognized it from childhood. Mice. Back then it was field mice that came in the house to get warm. "They're more scared of you than you are of them," my mother said. Impossible. And now it was late October and the weather had turned cold.

We'd tried traps, all kinds. But the scratching continued. Always when he was at work. Night shift, of course. That's when bartenders get the good tips. He said he believed me. But there was that look.

So I bought a book. Then I collected the supplies: a small cauldron, charcoal, sage for cleansing, a tiger's eye to protect and draw down spiritual energy, black salt to keep away evil (and mice are evil), and a mixture of herbs for banishing.

Early evening on the 31st, I started by lighting the sage and smudging the whole house, all four rooms of it. Then I lit the charcoal and threw the herbs and salt on it. As the smoke rose toward the ceiling (making my eyes water so I opened the window a crack), I clutched the stone in my hand and pictured the mice rising up and away on the smoke. I threw a few more herbs on the fire for good measure.

I awoke to him standing over me. My teeth chattered in the coldness of the room. All the windows were wide open and the ceiling fan spun above me. "The neighbors thought the house was on fire."

The scratching didn't return.

Missed Hallowe’en, though. Rats.

WPW: Plaid Skirts

Writing Prompt Wednesday entry:



"Does a plaid skirt make you dumber?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I said. Do you lose intelligence points whenever you see a girl in a plaid skirt?"

"Oh. Well. Yeah, kinda."

"And why is that?"

"Don't know. Must be something from my teens. Catholic school girls and all that."

"I guess I understand it when you're sixteen, but now . . .I don't know. Seems weird."

"Don't you still get kinda dumb around a guy in jeans and a white t-shirt?"

"Not dumb, exactly. Silly, maybe."

"Well, there you go. Hey, I have an idea."

"I don't own a plaid skirt."

WPW: Enough Like Midnight

Writing Prompt Wednesday

Even now, nearly midnight, the ground is still very warm as I sink my fingers into the earth. The moon is out, just a sliver of it. My favorite to look at, but little help to work by. At least the dirt is soft and easy to grasp. Dark, loamy. Good for growing things. Rich enough.

A strand of hair slides in front of my left eye, and I swipe it back behind my ear, most likely smudging my cheek in the process. It'll wash off easily enough.

Sitting back on my heels, I survey my work. The hole is almost perfectly round; I'm tempted to go back in and find an old compass to check, but resist. The bottom is rounded like a bowl. Three inches should be deep enough.

I set the reason for the hole in it and look at it for a minute--two--three. Long enough.

The dirt sifts through my fingers back into the hole, exactly as it was before. Not exactly, I guess. But close enough.

The ring is out of sight. I couldn't sell it, but I don't want it either. This is a compromise. Unlike him, will it be good enough?