It was Corky’s idea. Something about him being retarded makes it so’s God can “dial direct,” I guess.
After he said this it seemed kinda chickenshit to not go through with it. Pascal got the wheelchair up from the cellar, Donna found her old lap-shawl she used to sit with before the latest stroke. When I lifted her into the chair I was amazed at how brittle her body felt through the nightgown, like a gunnysack of chicken bones. I belted her into the chair with a pair of black stockings from her nun days and off we went.
Good one… I can actually picture that one happening.
“Like a gunny sack of chicken bones.” Oh my. Poor old girl is at the end of her ride, I think.
What is it about this photo and chickens? The pecked their way into my story as well. Lovely work.
Looks like a fun-loving bunch and your story reflects that. FYI I had another difficulty in posting a comment at your other page. My comment disappeared and there is no way of knowing if you ever get any comment I make. It is discouraging to mess with it week after week…
I love your descriptive words – ha ha ha – Enjoyable story.
I love this side of your writing.