Remember What You Read

If you forget what you read, is it always the fault of the author? What if the book was forgettable? Or maybe it's the playfulness of our memory, and the similarity between books we've read. Here's a humorous look at the issue with Daisy.

Your thoughts?

See you next week,

Judy

Goody Wren (A flash fiction story)

“Take what you want. It all goes,” Mom called.

“Okay.” I said from my late Grandmother's disheveled attic.

It was May. But sweat beaded my forehead as if it were steamy July. I reached for the limp puppet, and shuddered at it's icy stare, and garish red lips. My eyes fell on a note pinned to it.

“Do not discard or abuse me

or you'll have trouble and shame.

I'm a living personality

And Goody Wren is my name.”

Quickly, I closed the puppet back inside its suitcase, feeling irrational guilt for suffocating it.

“Creepy!”

“What's creepy?” My sister Emily stepped off the pull down ladder and approached me.

“Are you talking to yourself? What's in there?” Emily pointed to the suitcase.

Before I could stop her, she opened the case, squashed the puppet under her arm, and hurried to the ladder. Then came the crash followed by Emily’s scream. At the foot of the ladder, she lay blubbering, and grasping her ankle.

Mom and dad raced along the hallway, and helped Emily to the car.

“We'll drive you to the clinic,” mom said. “You'll be all right.”

Curiously, the car wouldn't start. Dad opened the hood, and checked the battery.

In the kitchen, I filled a plastic bag with ice for Emily, when Muffy, our Beagle, began barking at the hallway. When I investigated, I found the puppet crumpled on the floor.

Gently, I positioned Goody Wren on Gram's recliner, and then ran outside with the ice.

Suddenly, the engine cranked, and Dad drove off with Mom and Emily.

I stayed at Gram's with Muffy.

Two hours later, Goody Wren and the note, were folded inside the suitcase and safely hidden under an attic floorboard. Muffy snored. And Emily's ankle? Barely sprained.

Humor at a Writer's Expense