The exercise:
Write about something that is: faulty.
Inspired by the weed eater refusing to work this morning. Kat's dad took it in to have it looked at this afternoon and the problem turned out to be a filter that needs cleaning twice a year. I'm guessing it's never been cleaned. So at least that's taken care of now.
I ended up doing some hand weeding in the garden and then took another chunk out of the weeds by our raspberries. The second variety that we grow is coming into season and my goodness are they ever big. I'm looking forward to picking those tomorrow.
Rebecca is returning this evening and she's bringing her boyfriend with her. Not sure exactly how long he'll be staying, maybe until the weekend, but for however long it ends up being it'll be nice to have another set of hands around to help out, as he sounds quite eager to be a part of things on the farm.
Mine:
Vincent was having a great deal of difficulty focusing on the task at hand. He could feel the weight of the onlookers stares on his shoulder blades. Sweat was beginning to slip from his brow and into his eyes. His fingers felt as though they were growing thicker and more clumsy with each passing second.
"Maybe jiggle it a bit?"
And, oh yes, the well-meant suggestions. They kept battering into him like boulders careening down a mountain.
"Have you tried unplugging it and then plugging it back in again?"
Vincent forced himself to breathe in through his nostrils and out through his mouth. It didn't really calm him down, but it seemed to be holding his temper in check. Which was definitely something.
"Do I get to leave if this muttonhead can't figure it out?"
Vincent turned at this, his eyes going hard. He knew that voice. He'd been hearing far too much of it recently.
"You don't get to walk," he told the man strapped to the electric chair, "just because the switch is acting up. It might take a while, so you best get yourself comfy. But not, you know, too comfy..."
2 comments:
Sounds like you've learned something important about the weed eater today! I'm glad it was just a filter that needed cleaning, that sounds like it was a relatively inexpensive fix.
Poor Vincent, he's clearly trying hard with things are aren't his fault. I started looking out for a punchline about half-way through but I didn't twig to what was coming, and it made me smile broadly (I'm at work, laughing out loud is a bad idea unless I want to share what I'm doing). I also liked the con's attempt to get out of waiting for the current to flow :)
Faulty
The Fighting Chihuahuas raced across the lawn in hot pursuit of an incautious fox, which loped silently, but desperately, ahead, its head turning and looking for an escape. Marigold, her leg in a cast, sat on a lawn-chair sipping chamomile tea from a china cup and looked away from them with a delicate shudder: they'd been responsible for her current injuries. Lady Agatha, sat opposite in a bathing suit entirely inappropriate for a woman of her years, speared an oyster on a silver spike and ate it.
"Do they ever catch the fox?" asked Marigold. The conversation so far had been stilted and she felt as though Lady Agatha was waiting for her to say the wrong thing.
"Always," said Lady Agatha. She eyed the petit fours on the table, and skewered an éclair. Aniseed cream oozed from the puncture wound like old, slow blood. "I have to get fresh foxes in every other month."
Marigold shuddered again. "Barbaric," she whispered.
Lady Agatha leaned forward and stabbed the silver spike through the cast and into Marigold's leg. Her screech would have set a monk's teeth on edge.
"The problem with you, Marigold," said Lady Agatha grimly, "is that you're faulty. You don't do what your instruction label says you should. And I'm a firm believer in breaking things that don't work."
Marigold's hands fluttered around the spike, not daring to pull it out. "It hurts," she said, tears coming to her eyes.
"Good," said Lady Agatha with feeling. "It's supposed to. Now get out of that damn chair and get back into training before I make you dress up as a fox and train where the chihuahuas can find you."
"But... but... it's a marathon!"
"I. Don't. Care."
Greg - ah, I'm glad I was able to disguise the scene from you until the very end :)
Hmm, good old Lady Agatha is at her finest here, I think. Love the description of the skewered eclair. And that final line is so precise and clear, I have no trouble at all hearing it in my head.
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