Saturday's Storyteller: "Look at you, shakin' the sugar out of your shoes."
by Belinda Roddie
Look at you, shakin' the sugar out of your shoes. You shared a funnel cake with me, and some of the sparkling cinnamon was lapped up by the leather tongues protecting your weak ankles. You walked out onto the grass, stripped your feet bare, and waved your socks in the air like streamers. Clouds of sweet dust occupied the remaining bubbles blown from a nameless child's plastic magic wand.
Before the funnel cake, you held me when we watched the fireworks at the fair. Look at you, clinging to me like sugar to your shoes. Hair lit up by distant golds and reds and purples and greens and blues. You got to watch the explosive confetti in person and from the glowing lens of my camera. I kept your whooping quieter for the sake of my ears. I could see your smile without even turning around.
Before the fireworks, we walked together in the fine arts building. Every painting, photograph, sculpture, and mixed media had a different story to tell. Some stories, of course, came at a price if you wanted to take it home with you. Keep the purple cosmos in one frame to yourself, or fork out a whopping three thousand dollars for a beautifully crafted terrier in a basket. Above our heads, the county's towns were carved out in wooden placards. Your open blue shirt bristled against my thin sweater. I knew I would be cold outside. You'd try hard to warm me up, and I'd appreciate the effort.
Before the fine arts, we watched films that made me cry and made you think. We chewed on corn dogs and deep fried pickles and artichokes. We watched your father trill on the piccolo with the band. We threw bean bags at a disliked presidential candidate's face. We shared the same water bottle, the same car ride over. The beginning of a new month, a mere two days before our country pulled out its britches and acted all macho again. But I think my favorite part of it all was after the funnel cake, but before you got sugar in your shoes. You spread a layer of cinnamon across your lips and said, "Oops, I got a little something on me. Can you clean it off?"
And I was happy to kiss you. And you hoped I was happy to kiss you. And you didn't have to worry anymore because I was here, and you were here, smiling beneath clouds and smoke and a dark, cool sky.
This week's prompt was jointly provided by Arden Kilzer and myself. So yes, a little bit of cheating on my part, but it's not like I came up with it on my own.
Look at you, shakin' the sugar out of your shoes. You shared a funnel cake with me, and some of the sparkling cinnamon was lapped up by the leather tongues protecting your weak ankles. You walked out onto the grass, stripped your feet bare, and waved your socks in the air like streamers. Clouds of sweet dust occupied the remaining bubbles blown from a nameless child's plastic magic wand.
Before the funnel cake, you held me when we watched the fireworks at the fair. Look at you, clinging to me like sugar to your shoes. Hair lit up by distant golds and reds and purples and greens and blues. You got to watch the explosive confetti in person and from the glowing lens of my camera. I kept your whooping quieter for the sake of my ears. I could see your smile without even turning around.
Before the fireworks, we walked together in the fine arts building. Every painting, photograph, sculpture, and mixed media had a different story to tell. Some stories, of course, came at a price if you wanted to take it home with you. Keep the purple cosmos in one frame to yourself, or fork out a whopping three thousand dollars for a beautifully crafted terrier in a basket. Above our heads, the county's towns were carved out in wooden placards. Your open blue shirt bristled against my thin sweater. I knew I would be cold outside. You'd try hard to warm me up, and I'd appreciate the effort.
Before the fine arts, we watched films that made me cry and made you think. We chewed on corn dogs and deep fried pickles and artichokes. We watched your father trill on the piccolo with the band. We threw bean bags at a disliked presidential candidate's face. We shared the same water bottle, the same car ride over. The beginning of a new month, a mere two days before our country pulled out its britches and acted all macho again. But I think my favorite part of it all was after the funnel cake, but before you got sugar in your shoes. You spread a layer of cinnamon across your lips and said, "Oops, I got a little something on me. Can you clean it off?"
And I was happy to kiss you. And you hoped I was happy to kiss you. And you didn't have to worry anymore because I was here, and you were here, smiling beneath clouds and smoke and a dark, cool sky.
This week's prompt was jointly provided by Arden Kilzer and myself. So yes, a little bit of cheating on my part, but it's not like I came up with it on my own.
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