fiction - grace grits and gardening

The marketplace was too loud to read so I closed my book and watched him. He banged on the lid of the trash can, then giggled to no one in particular. As he mumbled a tune, he wiggled around hopping from one foot to the other. Probably needed to pee, I thought. He was likely at that stage where he insisted on dressing himself. Mothers learn quickly to pick their battles, and coordinating clothing is typically traded off for something more important. He was content wearing a mismatched striped outfit and playing his makeshift drum. We should all be so carefree.

Grace Grits and Gardening

“Children see magic because they look for it.”
― Christopher Moore

This was written for Write Tribe – 100 Words on Saturday – Picture Prompt

“White wine, please.” She sits at the end of the bar and blends in with the other faceless people. She is alone. Alone and lonely yet surrounded by laughter and dancing and music so loud the wine vibrates in her glass. Everything feels forced—the energy in this place, the smiles plastered all around, even her breathing—inhale, exhale. She takes a sip, feels the coolness slip down her throat and silently toasts the New Year. Things can only get better…

“Bourbon rocks.” He claims the next stool. The faint smell of his cologne almost invokes a memory, but not quite.

Grace Grits and Gardening

Farm. Food. Garden. Life.

This post was written especially for Write Tribe – 100 Words on Saturday, Prompt: Strangers in the Night.

Musical Pairing:

Frank Sinatra, Strangers in the Night