A Letter About The Letter

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I hit pause on Terminator, my zillionth time watching the thing, and listen to the battle sounds rising up through the furnace vent, or to be precise, I hear my oldest sister bullying the others into submission. Her name is Joy, a more misnamed person I’m positive doesn’t exist, for her sworn vocation is to eradicate joy from the world, one person at a time, starting with me. After years surviving as the youngest, my finely tuned senses pick up something. Voices raise; one word comes up, clearly, deadly -- bingo. Oh crap. I’ve screwed up, caught home on bingo night! If my stupid broken window opened, I’d risk hang dropping from the second floor. While not sounding dangerously high, the junk filling the backyard makes…show more content…
My sisters are not above ambush. No way do I want to be caught at home and drafted into subbing for grandma, an experience so brain cell destroying it might cause lower IQ points. I have a clear shot to the stairs, although I’m still not safe, descending our stairs without killing yourself takes full concentration and mountain goat nimbleness. Things never make the climb to the second floor: clothes piles, unopened mail, books, pop cans, candy wrappers and empty chip bags. Not hoarder level, our house is still a dump. Halfway down the treacherous slope, I step over a high pile of clothes and slip on an unseen plastic bag, causing my leg to shoot out. My back leg remains on the other side of the clothes, so I tumble down the stairs with my legs going in separate directions. “Incoming,” warns dad from his permanent spot in the living room, slumped in his recliner, watching TV. His one pleasure besides consuming processed meat is shouting out, “incoming,” whenever you drop something, or he delivers another toxic bomb. At an early age, you learned to bolt whenever you heard that word. The rest of the crap on the stairs actually saves me from plummeting all the way down. My body seems to have survived the fall, although my laptop concerns me more than breaking any bones. Despite its mysterious origins from Uncle Mike and being light years behind the technology wave, replacing it would be near impossible. It contains all my screenplays and lists. I dig it
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