I forgot that I wrote a bit while getting my oil changed. This is by no means a focused and well-thought-out effort, but it is an effort.
Looking like a pair of snooty maitre'ds standing with their hands behind their backs, the laughing gulls faced into the wind blowing through the mangroves. Mona lay on her rattan beach mat, bought at what was grandly named the Superstore. Once she stepped through the door she decided the name was appropriate. The store itself was bigger than it looked from outside and held something for everyone. Shoes were jumbled in black wire-grid bins, tags flapping out and smaller ones trying to slip out the gaps. Some hopeful soul had made big signs, hand lettered numbers on florescent paper, to stick on the bins but anyone with sense knew at a glance that the sizes and styles were hopelessly mixed. Next came the storage department across from shelves overflowing with bathmats and throw rugs. There were teetering piles of towels, bath and beach, curtains, blinds, and rods. She saw aisles of kitchen ware and dishware, all of it flimsy and some even broken.
It wasn't the writing weekend I hoped it would be, but it wasn't a complete washout either. I managed a little this afternoon. More to come!
--Barbara
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