Tuesday, August 01, 2006

3 Paragraphs

Camping up in the hills just above the scraggly, dusty, dry caked surfaces where the water level lowers with each insipid swell of the thermometer that glides easily upwards and fails -- long after twightlight -- to fall much into a slumbering temperate zone.

There are tufts of grass edging the sites where few walk or crush down with heavy tarps; bathrooms with ample space and privacy and don't require two quarters for five minutes of either too hot or too cool water scented with an underlying flavor of rotten, sulfuric eggs trickling down over sunburnt shoulders scathed with miniscule particles remnant of the "fresh" lake waters.

Fresh. The porta-potties, emptied every Thursday whether they need it or not, are too far away from the rocky shores for all those children to dash upwards to when the need hits them. The need comes only when their little fraile yet surprisingly agile and resilient bodies poke up out of the sand or emerge from the waters and then hits with such ferociousness they barely realize the deed is done. Fresh. About as fresh as a ninety-year-old man coming on to a twenty-something girl. You are of age, right, dearie?

(c) Kathie L./kathie.blog/2006
All Rights Reserved
3somes for the week
July 30 - August 5, 2006


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