"Macrame," bellowed the belligerent eighth grader. "This is supposed to be art--not home and careers."
"Macrame is a craft," responded the sophisticated, classy, clever and beautiful Mrs. Brawnschweiger. "Not a comestable. A craft that you will all be glad to know--a skill you will be glad to possess, should you ever need to suspend a fishbowl from the ceiling."
"Huh?" Four of the students had their heads cocked to the side like confused puppies, three of the students had their hands under the table, texting away, and the rest were rolling their eyes. Lots and lots of eye rolling.
Mrs. Brawnschweiger opened the cardboard box and pulled out a big spool of jute. "I have jute for everyone: natural, fragrant, undyed jute. With that, and a brass ring apiece, you will make some very handsome belts."
"Can we line up?"
Oh, no, no, no. Not the LITERAL meaning, for Pete's Sake.
Writing stories and sharing them with the world is exhilarating--and simultaneously, makes me want to take my stripped-naked and exposed self right back up the stairs to hide beneath the sheets. When someone lets me know that they got a laugh or two from reading Kismet, that they found some pleasure in those words, I feel like I've reached for and hooked myself the brass ring.
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