Mornings

SusanWritesPrecise/ Susan marie Shuman

It’s the Sunday Whirl! Below are the words we are to use in our story or poem.

 

 

Inga lay in the top bunk watching droplets of rain form and merge into rivulets on the bedroom window. Occasionally she heard a roll of thunder over her younger sister’s snoring, but the magical ping of rain on the roof was lost to her — no matter how hard she listened.  For a nine-year-old, Olga could really saw some logs.

Inga glanced at the clock and reluctantly climbed out of bed. It was her turn to get breakfast. Cooking for seven was a task for a 12-year-old, but that’s the way it was in this new family. She knew she shouldn’t complain; Inga & Olga were damned lucky to have been adopted together. Since their parents had been incarcerated (drugs, again) two years ago, they’d been through more foster homes than Inga cared to count.

Downstairs, the house was still and silent. No one would ever guess six other people lived there. Inga enjoyed the quiet for a few moments before starting the family’s usual Sunday morning pancake breakfast. In her daydream, she remembered the string of events that landed she and her sister here, with a new family.

It was early, early morning and still dark out. The first thing that happened was the family dog, a pit bull erroneously named Fluffy, had been shot when he attacked a member of the SWAT team. Inga and her sister had been afraid of Fluffy; he’d bitten Olga twice, and threatened everyone but their parents with his growling, his angry drooling, and barred teeth. Inga always thought there was something wrong with Fluffy, like maybe he was retarded or something.

Could dogs be retarded? Inga mused.

Next, there was the rude bang of the cops kicking-in the door and the sound of heavy footsteps throughout the house and into the parents’ bedroom. Much yelling and screaming ensued. How they knew the layout of the house was a mystery. Then, a lady cop came in the girls’ room and tried to keep them calm. She was nice, Inga recalled. She introduced herself and told them everything would be okay. Olga was crying a little, but eventually stopped as the lady read them a couple of stories. She also gave the girls a stuffed animal each, which they still had.

Then, she heard a rumble of footsteps going down the stairs into the stinky basement where she and Olga were never allowed to go. It turned out that’s where something called a ‘meth lab’ was kept. At first, Inga thought it might be like the math lab at school, but no. It wasn’t at all. After that things got fuzzy and their lives had changed forever.

A shriek of lightning lit up the sky, frightening Inga out of her reverie. It also reminded her to start breakfast.

After mixing the pancake batter, she set the table with cheerful-looking Fiestaware plates. The color was called peacock, according to her new mom, and Inga thought it was the prettiest color ever.

Inga thought surely the smell of the pancakes cooking and all the noise she accidentally made would have awakened the rest of the family. Usually they were all downstairs by now. Maybe they were all sleeping-in on this rainy, sleepy morning.

“Inga?” Olga yelled in a panicked voice. “Inga! Are you here?”

“In the kitchen!” Inga yelled back, feeling a sense of foreboding. Of course, I’m here…where else would I be?

“They’re gone!” Olga announced as she ran to her sister. “They’re all gone!” She had the stuffed animal from the lady cop in a vice grip.

What’s gone?

“Nobody’s here. Even their stuff is gone!”

It was then that Inga noticed an envelope on the far kitchen counter. It was halfway under the microwave. She ripped it open and read it aloud:

Dear Inga and Olga,

We’re very sorry but—

Inga was interrupted by the loud bang of the SWAT team kicking in the front door.

 

SusanWritesPrecise/ Susan Marie Shuman

peacock blue fiestaware

 

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