wildwestwind: That's the catch

Michael's Fáilte

Welcome to these writing warmups, blatherings, rantings, meditations, perorations, salutations, latest and those on time, those narrative, declarative, interrogative, gollywogative and other outdated, belated, simulated musings, perusings, shavings and other close calls, with no disrespect intended, that's why no real names included whenever impossible to avoid the guilt that came in the crib for uttering something that would hurt or injure those in authority, being of everlasting servitude to all and sundry, having chosen the road not taken and the frost on the pumpkin long before the kettle turned black or the cat found its own tail fascinating,
Your humble servant, etc.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

That's the catch

That's the catch, she said.

Martha was overcome with fumes of fatality. Or do I mean, fatalism. Yes, that's right, more of an -ism sort of day if you can believe that. Pinched shoes were just one more sign that her life was being squeezed out by sacrificial justifications: Oh it's all right, I'll just...or Nevermind, it's only a small sacrifice to make...

It's as if she was as they say always waiting, not for a bus that would take her somewhere fun or purposeful, but for the penny to drop, the catch to click shut and make another blood blister on Martha's fickle finger of fate. Everything but everything was a matter of fate for poor Martha——as if her childhood wounds and fears had become the roadmap for her life of superstition. She saw it in the mirror each morning and walked away from it quickly.