"Word Choice: One Syllable Words
Write a response (fiction, nonfiction, a scene, a description of a person or place, ect.) that is roughly 500 words and is made up of ONLY one syllable words. This exercise highlights the importance of word choice and pushes the limits of your vocabulary. You may even have to break out a thesaurus! "
When we walk, arms full of books, I try to keep my kids with me. But right now the boy is out in front and the girl is way far back. I am torn in two. I yell at the far one, call to the slow one and then turn my eyes to the baby I hold and my phone.
Her eyes are closed. A smile plays on her small lips. I grin and try to take a shot of her sweet small face when an old maid walks by. Her hat is fur and her eyes dark lined.
“Get off your phone and get your kids!” She snarls my way. Her paint red lips look cracked.
I look in front, I look back. Where I saw smiles and slow walks I now see the rush and threat of the busy street. My heart beats with shame.
“Witch,” I think (but with a B), but I know she is right and it hurts. My shame grows. I feel the title mom turn into the curse “fraud.” I cringe and call once more to my small one who has run out in front. I turn off my phone to grab the one in back.
But, a new plain clothes judge gets off the bus and shouts, “Whose kid is this? Where is her mom? It is a shame, a shame the way some moms don’t seem to care.”
“She’s with me,” I call, “She’s okay.” My girl smiles and takes short strides my way. But she is too close to the bus. She may fall or worse this new rat may snatch her up.
“It is not okay” comes the reply from the cavy queen. She vents her shock and rage. I reel from the force of her cold call down. Much of what she says is true. Risks I can not count come to mind. I can not keep them safe. Three is more than I can watch all at once. What can I do? I am flawed. I fail. At last, she gives me a shake of the head and a silent boo.
I can not move. A pain grabs my heart and my breath is short and weak.
My kids still smile and make their way at their own pace. The fast boy stops in his tracks at the red WAIT hand and the slow one hops over each crack. I love them all so bad it hurts.
I start to breath a slow plea to God to give me grace, to help me just to be. I ask the Son of God to let me take one step and then the next. I ask Him to take the blame, the guilt, the fear that hold my feet in stone blocks.
And He is there. He is real. I pick up my small girl and hug her tight. I walk to my first born son and hold his hand. I look at my baby’s face and her eyes are still closed in peace and sleep.