|The door swung open...Writers' Campaign|
The door swung open to the restored old church, the home to Samuel and the adults. The Mommy dropped the groceries on the table and tossed Samuel into the playpen. “Be right back!” Mommy whisked out the door.
Samuel waited, listened. He had the time, the strength, and he could do this. Throwing the blue pacifier over the railing, Samuel hoisted his pwesuss whittl waygeess over the railing and did a practiced roll. With his hands up for balance, Samuel began the newly discovered walking power: stagger-stagger-wobble.
‘Focus, man, focus!’ The words hammered in his 14 month brain. ‘Ignore the Cheerios under the couch!”
Samuel reached the spot where he nailed Grammie with projectile vomit. She was saying, “Gwamma wuvs dose pwessus whittle wegees…” Blaaaagh, and she stopped. Good times.
Almost there, Samuel pictured the freedom: chase the kitty, taste the flowers, squish mud. Such fine adventures, and he was almost there.
The Mommy swooped through the door and knocked over Samuel. She swept him up. “Mommy wuvs dose pwessus whittle waygees…”
Samuel tried to say, “Dammit woman! Can’t you speak the King’s English?” All that came out was a cry and some spit-up. The door swung shut.