This piece was written for OLWG#148
“My lands,” Gramma Tamsin spat, “I could live to be a hunnert and never see that agin till my dying day.” She sat back and smiled to herself.
“What’s that Momma? Whadcha see?”
“It’s that no good dawg o’ yourn. He just pooped in your girl’s Buster Browns.”
“Not too shore. Mighta been the left one, I think.”
“Not which shoe, Momma.”
“Sorry,’ twas the brown one without a tail.”
“No, not which dog, neither. Which girl?”
“Y’all need to be a bit more clearer when yore axeing questions, Tammy. It’s that redheaded girl. The one what doesn’t look like neither you nor Buck. The one what all-ays looks like a little ragamuffin. The one out here playin’ in the front yard. The bottom of the porch steps.”
“Damnit! Savannah Mae. Fetch yore shoes and hose the poop outen ‘em right now. Lawd ‘a Mercy girl, I don’t know what y’all gonna wear to church this moning.”
Gramma Tamsin jist kep rockin’, smilin’ ‘n watchin’ the kids.
There shore were a passel of ‘em.
The prompts were:
- What happened to my coffee?
- Buster Browns
- till my dying day