Here’s one I’ve been working on lately. I haven’t quite figured out what it needs to be yet…a poem or longer piece (short fiction, perhaps?).
It was a two person show. My grandmother and grandfather ritually sparred with the slick black corncob stove serving as the referee between them. Grandfather returned from the field smelling of earth; hands rough as the rocks he picked. Polack curses rode on the wave of his breath while he steadied himself on a vinyl chair. He pulled off his muddy boot, cracked leather clenching onto his swollen foot. Then, smiling curtly in the direction of the kitchen threw it at the paneled wall. Clumps splattered and fell to the floor like hail. The sound always brought my grandmother to the kitchen threshold. A full six inches taller, his colossus, she entered to reprimand him pointing at his mess with one hand and beating him with a pork-greased spatula in the other.
The sparring began.
In the summer heat, the flytraps swayed from the low shanty ceiling and grappling for space with their skulls. The two paced back and forth shouting about the Nebraska weather, lamenting the poor crop that year, and cursing the neighbors all while nipping at each other’s bruises
Then, sweat-beaded weary silence. No resolution. No closure. Grandfather surrendered by detaching his overalls letting the brass buttons clank to the linoleum and hanging them on nail just as he had everyday for fifty years. Clad in his sweat-stained undershirt and a pair of plain boxers, he sat across from her to have his dinner.