Fred, just turned nineteen, gripped his rifle tight against his chest. Soot and dirt caked his face, giving him an ashen mask over his pasty, Irish skin. His throat hummed but his lips trembled and chopped up the melodic breathing.
My mother told me to stay on our side of the yard. Every time I came to visit, after moving out and starting my own family, Mom said that I needed to say on our side of the yard.
“Put that flower pot next to the hose… No, not that hose. The one next to the bird bath.” “This one?” “No, the other bird bath.” “Why do you have so many bird baths?” “I like seeing clean birds.”
A 15-Minute Writing Challenge based off the word, "Jostle."