This week’s Terrible Poetry Contest is over at Chelsea’s page. Give it a read, give it a whirl, chuckle and snuffle until the words all swirl.
This week’s theme is losing something dear to you. I was daring and wrote about losing my patience.
Tag: patience
Indie Author: When You Want To Kill Someone (humor)
To quote John Pinette, sometimes I lose my cherub like demeanor. Whether it’s in parking garages, the daily commute or someone being a me-monster, my clock of patience winds down with humanity more quickly these days. The hour hand suddenly jams and can’t move. Soon the second hand gets stuck and the minute hand ticks solitarily in place. I start to twitch while calculating coffin sizes in my mind.
Why, you think to yourself, are humans so selfish? I checked out a few theology books* at the library the other day, as we INTJ Christians do, to review the apologetics. One of the books answers tough questions about life, like why evil exists and why paper cuts happen. The Archangel Gabriel tapped me on the shoulder while I was checking out. I saw he had some comic books in his hands: X-Men Archangel of all things. He was frank with me, as usual: “Try dealing with your kind for thousands of years, kid. Some of us angels are difficult, too, but that’s a whole other story. By the way, can you autograph my copy of Memory Bound? Make it out to “Gabby the Angel”. Michael will keep his paws off it that way…”
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Me, The Hose Bin & Writing: The Battle Continues
I have a hose bin. It’s a quaint, pretty thing. It was a requested birthday gift, three years ago, something to help the Saint and I maintain our yard. Think of a beige plastic box with a feeder reel, a rod, a lid and a hand crank lever. You hook up the hose to the back, hook that up to your water spigot, and bam–you have a stored hose. Roll, unroll and off you go.
I used to think these watering hose bins were classy things. Instead of having hoses laying in driveways baking in the sun, or shaded underneath awnings like an idly waiting Boa Constrictor, hoses could be contained and camouflaged in garden beds. No more tripping, more more lugging, no more unsightliness. No longer do I entertain such foolish notions. This summer, as I stood shaded by my Japanese Elm tree, I went to war with the hose bin yet again. And I wondered exactly, just exactly, how many times a hose can get stuck and refuse to come out!
When the Saint came home from work, I merely pointed to the hose bin. By this time it was knocked over, dragged across the landscaping rocks and pinned between the front porch corner and an unlucky Holly bush. In my hands, I grasped about four feet of green rubber hose–a hard sought victory, a well earned prize.
My patience had disappeared.
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Peregrine Arc 