Friday, August 13, 2010


We sat high in the mow,touching rafters with broken pieces of straw and talking about the things young kids talked about in those days: Madonna, Guess Jeans, and who liked who. The hunts for new litters of kittens were merely an excuse to find some privacy from the adults and space from the youngest of the human litters. My sister was jumping from bale to bale, pretending to be a gymnast and choreographing her routine around the thin shafts of light that seeped around the wooden slatted walls. Leap. Twirl. Arms extended high. Twirl. Leap. Toes pointed for effect. And then she disappeared.

"Jenny?" I called, suddenly afraid. There was no response. My body stiffened a bit more and I slowly went to look for her. Peering over the bale she was last standing on, I saw her body in a heap, muddied and shaking slightly, two floors down. It was only then that I realized the trap door had given way.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***


  1. I went over to Marc's blog and see that this is non-fiction. I hope this has a good ending.

  2. Monica,

    Other than having the wind knocked out of her and being covered in mud, she was fine. We still talk about her many farming misfortunes when we get together.