Promethean Logophile

Susan rocketed into the kitchen, stuffed a pop tart into her mouth, and yelled a quick goodbye to her Mom who was in the midst of preparing a hearty breakfast for the family. She turned to say goodbye to her fifteen year old daughter, but instead yelped “Good grief, where do you think you’re going in that get-up?”

Susan glared at her, then thought better of it and assumed the innocent teenage look of “what, what are you talking about?” Mother and daughter stood assessing each other and the situation for a full second.

Ralph Boudreau walked quickly down the courthouse steps, grim faced and tight lipped. Ignoring the camera flashes and intrusive push of reporters, he slid into the seat of his '65 Mustang and slammed the door. He still felt the heat of the courtroom as the adversarial attorney gave him a surprise shellacking. He had been dumbfounded at the precision of the attack.

"Where...who...how did he get that information?," Ralph protested to the empty car. Getting no response, he continued to tick off all the possible scenarios. "Coercian? Bribery? Threats?". Questions bounced around the silent interior but answers illuded him.

Gladys Wilson rose long before the sun lumbered into the sky. She always moved quickly, in short deliberate movements. The damp cold of the morning increased her usual alacrity. Pulling her wool shawl tightly around her thin body she began this momentous day by gathering a small pile of firewood, lighting it and setting the iron kettle at the apex. She picked through the barrel containing food supplies, pulling out enough corn meal to prepare simple corn cakes as sustinance for the day