Two Hobos

“Hey, Ralph! Gotta smoke?”

Ralph reached into the back pocket of his tattered dungarees, while leaning close to the shed along the tracks. “Here!” he grunted, as he tossed a crinkled pack of Marlboros to Tony. “Watch where you smoke ‘em. We don’t want anyone seein' us before the Northern Pacific comes by to refill its water tank.”

“That ain’t ‘til after sundown and I’m bored,” Tony, ten years younger, complained.

“I’m tellin’ ya, Tony, if yer not careful, we won’t be gettin’ to Ma’s before she ‘kicks the bucket.’”

“Okay! Okay! It’s just not as easy as I thought it would be! Ridin' the rails would be fine, but hidin’ out or hikin' from town-to-town… well, I got a blister on two toes and these shoes ain’t holdin’ up neither!”

“Listen!” Ralph whispered sharply, after a twig snapped nearby. “Let’s scatter.”

“Hey, fellas! Whatcha doin’ around here! I haven’t seen ya in this here hollow. Where ya from?”

Tony looked at Ralph with his eyes and mouth wide open… waiting.

Ralph looked the sheriff straight in the eye. “We’re just movin’ through and takin’ a rest break in this here shade. Is there somethin' wrong with that?”

“No boys, but I’d say yer rest break is over. Now move on out or I’ll bring ya in for questioning.”

Ralph slung his pack over his shoulder, with his stick, hook, and cork bobber sticking out and picked up his blanket. Tony quickly stuffed the Marlboro’s in his pocket and grabbed his bag and homemade bow and the two began moving away, knowing that the Northern Pacific wouldn’t be carrying them closer to their destination that night.

I wrote this at my Practice Writing Group, with a prompt of “hobos” (or, “hoboes”) for 10 minutes, plus one or two additional minutes, and edited it slightly.

Precious Linda, c. 2013

Goody Two-Shoes

"GoodyTwo-Shoes, do what you need to do so you won't get in trouble with your parents…get good grades, be nice, don't wear dirty clothes or clothes with spots or tears in them!" That's what I grew up with… seeking perfection. Oh, if only it were possible. I never quite made it. Something was always wrong when it came to the parents, with one of us kids. Now, I seem to be the black sheep in the family, for something I did over three decades ago.

I'm just beginning to think that perfection is overrated. Sure, it's important to have a car that runs well and doesn't break down on you every other day. It's great to have an oven that works and gas or water pipes that don't leak, but when it comes to people, well, we can do our best but it will always be a far cry from perfect when compared to someone who can cook, sew, teach, paint, drive, write, sing, invent, perform surgery, etc. better than you.

I'm beginning to think perfection is some sort of false image or false hope that really isn't worth aiming for.

If there are no two snowflakes alike and if there are no two people alike and if handmade items are unique… then who wants to be a perfect replica of anything or anyone else?

I'm tired of trying to be perfect! How about you?

Let's join the non-perfects and just be ourselves… unusual, different, unique… sometimes bland and boring, sometimes, extremely fun, invigorating, and always unusually different! Maybe you're already there!

I wonder what it's like living comfortably in a non-perfect world with non-perfect people and away from the constant barrage of negative comments of those who think they're perfect and you aren’t. I hope to find out.

Precious Linda, c. 2012-2013

Originally written during my Practice Writing Group with the random word of: perfection, for 10 minutes.

The Motorcycle Rider (Previously: Motorcycle)

Joe's red bandana kept some of his long, blond hair from blowing in his face, as the breeze went by. His unshaven face matched his wrinkled, tattered t-shirt worn inside out with the sleeves cut off. The muscles of his arms were well-developed and his bronze skin reflected hours spent in the sun. His bony knees showed through his worn and faded jeans with grease and dirt swiped on the areas of his thighs. His boots were well-used with evidence of cow pies stuck on the soles and sides.

Joe’s mind raced, as did his pulse. He was fuming inside, wishing there were some other way. He revved the engine of his motorcycle and headed for the setting sun. He would never go back home… ever.

Precious Linda, c. 2012

Note: This was written during my Practice Writing Group with a randomly chosen word of: motorcycle, for 10 minutes.