The exercise:
Today we write about: the war.
Not sure what the current military trend is all about, though I suspect it must have at least a little to do with the fact that I'm currently reading The Book Thief
.
.This morning we picked almost twenty pounds of strawberries. Three ounces shy, to be exact. Which was a problem, seeing as we had orders of ten, five, and five pounds for this afternoon. So I went back out after lunch and found three more ounces that were either overlooked or had finished ripening in today's heat.
Right now we're picking strawberries Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I'm already starting to look forward to being done with them. Sad but true.
Mine:
This evening I spent some time weeding around one of several rows of potato plants. A few varieties are in bloom, while others are still keeping themselves busy by getting bigger.
It doesn't seem to matter much either way to the mosquitoes. They'll hang out around them both. Paranoid me thinks they're just waiting for me to show up. I try not to listen to paranoid me too much.
At least this evening I remembered to spray repellent on myself before heading out. It's a homemade concoction - I think it's just water and some drops of citronella essential oil - and it lasts for about an hour before I need to reapply it.
Anyway, I escaped the garden in a better state than usual. I don't think I suffered any new bites and I killed at least four of the tiny bastards.
5 comments:
Twenty pounds is a lot of strawberries! I can see why you might be getting a little fed up with them by now -- they're hard work to pick as well, with all that bending over required. The potatoes don't sound much easier at the moment either!
I read somewhere else recently (can't think where now) that insects dislike the smell of citrus, and it sounds like that's working, which is pretty cool.
The War
Someone knocked on the door, and Miss Cleavage opened it so fast that there was a small sonic boom. She looked at the visitor.
"Can I fetch a man to help you?" she said. The woman holding a large carpet bag started to speak, them stopped, and replayed the words she'd just heard in her head again.
"Fetch a man?" she said.
Miss Cleavage sighed. "This is the Headquarters of the Super-efficient, Super Scientific Super-heroes," she said patiently. "Although they don't advertise it so much, they're also Super-Sexist. Despite my super-powers my jobs entail doing the dusting, doing the cleaning, making sandwiches and answering the door. But only to find out which man I should ask to come and deal with you."
"Oh," said the visitor. "Oh well. In which case, I think I want to talk to you."
"That's not really allowed," said Miss Cleavage.
"Avon calling!" said the visitor cheerfully. She opened the carpet-bag and took a parchment roll out and handed it to Miss Cleavage.
"Sylvestra sends her regards and this declaration of war on the Super-Sexists."
She leaned in closer and lowered her voice, "...and if you'd like to join our side, I'm sure we could use someone as well-placed as yourself."
The War
There had been much strategizing over the last months. I shouldn't have been surprised that there was blood, sweat and tears. This was war. The little shitter ran past me, bare arsed and shrieking with his hands in the air. He thinks this is so funny. I narrow my eyes at him as he points to that damn train again.
I decide it's time to reiterate the finer points of his potential reward. "Poo goes in the potty. Not on the couch for big people to sit on. Not on the floor for you to slip and hurt yourself on. And not in Uncle Sean's back yard with the dog. Poo in potty." His battle hardened eyes smirk up at me. I sigh and wave him off needing a break from him.
I strategize while I fold clothes. But soon I hear a voice upstairs. "Mum! He missed again!" I can hear his feet fleeing the battlefield. I'll never understand how he can urinate on demand but this is has to be an issue.
Yes, blood because he slipped in his own shit and cut his head on the coffee table. You know what that is? That's skill. And disgusting.
the war
Why does a ritual get established? Is it some deeply buried instinct requiring satisfaction, or is it purely a societal requirement?
The actions of the ritual are obviously defined by our environment. We see someone else do them, or we respond once to a situation and proceed to always respond the same way. But why does it become part of our psyche, part of our life, part of our being?
Jason shook his head and picked up the knife. It didn't really matter. His preparations would always be the same, like a stylized dance where every step was predefined and judged on its precise execution.
A quick touch confirms the perfect edge to the blade. The tip of the gleaming metal presses swiftly against his left ring finger where it draws an infinitesimal drop of blood. The weapon glides smoothly into its sheath as he wipes the blood on his cheek.
His blood has been shed today. Any other will be that of the enemy.
Greg - hmm, this storyline just took a turn for the more intriguing, me thinks.
Mother in T.O. - holy... well, you know. You're right though, it's hard not to be impressed by that kind of skill.
Morganna - it does seem like the odd one out, but then again... it'll get you eventually if you're not careful, so maybe not.
Aholiab - great scene. Really liked the concluding paragraph in particular.
WAR in my home is between my brother and i.
My brother defends Asia and i defend everybody else.
My brother never wins and comes out of our WAR sad and left for words.
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