[Critique Group 1] FW: [WritersPartyline] DeAnna's Submission for 1-19-2020

[Marcia Wick]

kI'm forwarding Deanna's submission that she sent weeks ago. Marcia

 

From: WritersPartyline [mailto:writerspartyline-bounces at bluegrasspals.com]
On Behalf Of Deanna Noriega
Sent: Sunday, January 12, 2020 2:42 PM
To: abbietaylor945 at gmail.com
Cc: writerspartyline at bluegrasspals.com
Subject: [WritersPartyline] DeAnna's Submission for 1-19-2020

 

Hi Abbie, I somehow failed to save this piece after sending it to you, so
since I had to recreate it to post to the list, I changed it a bit. It is
now 300 words.

 

Grandpa's House

By DeAnna Quietwater Noriega

 

The Texas sunset paints the west with reds and orange. Five-year old feet in
Patton-leather shoes tap up the steps to the porch. The screen door squeaks
and they tread the linoleum of the hall. To the left is the big room with
the fireplace. Grandma and grandpa's room is through there and connects to
the dining room beyond. To the right of the hall, is the locked door to
daddy's brother's room. He drowned long ago. Next to the forbidden room is
the room where Pedro, Grandpa's ranch hand lives. The strains of his
harmonica float out of there. Straight ahead, the bare boards of the
screened porch begin. This is where Grandma's ringer washing machine and the
basin for washing hands wait. The dining room is the first on the left with
the door to the kitchen next and at the end of the porch is the door to the
room with the toilet. Ducks are gathering out the side door demanding corn.
They come up from the lake which is where the water is piped for the hand
basin, washer and toilet. It also is pumped to fill the stock tank in the
front yard. On hot days, it is fun to splash and play in that concrete tank
as if it is a swimming pool.  Lace-trimmed socks are tucked into Sunday
shoes, before they are dropped in the corner of the Living room. Small
Apache feet glory in the freedom and are ready to scamper out to answer the
call of the ducks, or to see if grandma needs them to run fetch a bucket of
water from the rain barrel. The smell of tortillas toasting on the griddle
and the slap thump of them being flipped and rolled flat, drift from the
kitchen.  

 

dqnoriega at gmail.com <mailto:dqnoriega at gmail.com>   

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