Saturday's Storyteller: "That's the last time I let you pick the family pet."
by Belinda Roddie
"That's the last time I let you pick the family pet."
Elliott Hound of Hound's Head was drinking from a flagon, celebrating ten years of steady business in Yardley. A bright-eyed thirty-six-year-old despite the alcohol intake, he was partially eavesdropping on a conversation between a disgruntled woman and from what he assumed her scrawny red-headed husband - and partially looking through the frosted window set between one of the corner booths and a framed sketch of August Wilson by Elliott's happy and artistic seven-year-old protégé of a niece.
Outside by the small house nestled between Hound's Head and the general store, Elliott's son Gabriel was building a small castle in the sandbox, using two red buckets and a plastic green shovel to build the turrets and the towers. Dangling off the corner of the box was the thick blue tarp that Elliott would throw across the crate every night, so the rain and the angry cats didn't try to ruin the pristine white surface of the miniature, personalized dune.
"I don't care what you think, Eli - cobras do not make good playmates for children."
Somewhere in Yardley, the Delaware River was overflowing, and kids romped around new school campuses with candies in their teeth and bad cafeteria food in their bellies. Somewhere, parents waited to retrieve their kin and bring them home to puppies and kittens and the occasional rabbit and rodent. But Gabriel had never wanted a pet. He had never asked for one. And Elliott, with an upper lip white and bloated from froth once fizzling on a flask's drooping lip, had never bothered to wonder why.
Somewhere, an old man was sitting afraid in his living room, not even desiring to watch TV. Perhaps if he walked outside, he could see Gabriel making his fortress, his safe haven, free from the salty waves or flood of fresh bacterial water from a coursing stream. Maybe he'd smile at it. Maybe he'd cower in fear. But he probably had a dog to keep him company - some mix between a lab and a hound. A hound reclining its head outside of Hound's Head.
Elliott went to the bar to clean glasses and plates and thought about what he'd do for a lunch special. He looked out the window again briefly to see Gabriel complete his masterpiece. He had taken wet sticks and leaves from the dirt and decorated the roof of his creation in bright October festivities. And as he flattened the walls perfectly with the edge of his little plastic shovel, he was all smiles.
Then again, Elliott thought, as he saw the bickering couple get up and leave a very meager tip, maybe Gabriel would be thoroughly entertained by a pet cobra.
This week's prompt was provided by Jocelyn Roddie.
"That's the last time I let you pick the family pet."
Elliott Hound of Hound's Head was drinking from a flagon, celebrating ten years of steady business in Yardley. A bright-eyed thirty-six-year-old despite the alcohol intake, he was partially eavesdropping on a conversation between a disgruntled woman and from what he assumed her scrawny red-headed husband - and partially looking through the frosted window set between one of the corner booths and a framed sketch of August Wilson by Elliott's happy and artistic seven-year-old protégé of a niece.
Outside by the small house nestled between Hound's Head and the general store, Elliott's son Gabriel was building a small castle in the sandbox, using two red buckets and a plastic green shovel to build the turrets and the towers. Dangling off the corner of the box was the thick blue tarp that Elliott would throw across the crate every night, so the rain and the angry cats didn't try to ruin the pristine white surface of the miniature, personalized dune.
"I don't care what you think, Eli - cobras do not make good playmates for children."
Somewhere in Yardley, the Delaware River was overflowing, and kids romped around new school campuses with candies in their teeth and bad cafeteria food in their bellies. Somewhere, parents waited to retrieve their kin and bring them home to puppies and kittens and the occasional rabbit and rodent. But Gabriel had never wanted a pet. He had never asked for one. And Elliott, with an upper lip white and bloated from froth once fizzling on a flask's drooping lip, had never bothered to wonder why.
Somewhere, an old man was sitting afraid in his living room, not even desiring to watch TV. Perhaps if he walked outside, he could see Gabriel making his fortress, his safe haven, free from the salty waves or flood of fresh bacterial water from a coursing stream. Maybe he'd smile at it. Maybe he'd cower in fear. But he probably had a dog to keep him company - some mix between a lab and a hound. A hound reclining its head outside of Hound's Head.
Elliott went to the bar to clean glasses and plates and thought about what he'd do for a lunch special. He looked out the window again briefly to see Gabriel complete his masterpiece. He had taken wet sticks and leaves from the dirt and decorated the roof of his creation in bright October festivities. And as he flattened the walls perfectly with the edge of his little plastic shovel, he was all smiles.
Then again, Elliott thought, as he saw the bickering couple get up and leave a very meager tip, maybe Gabriel would be thoroughly entertained by a pet cobra.
This week's prompt was provided by Jocelyn Roddie.
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