Little Curtis, Part 2

The second Little Curtis entry. This one was delivered in message form, since by this time there was a character limit imposed on comments on Facebook.

Another “Little Curtis” entry, written out of genial frustration at my friend Julie. I have a blast writing these.

Little Curtis ran up the back stoop, covered in cornsilk and trouble. “Momma! Momma!” He practically tore the screen door off its rickety hinges when he ran into the kitchen, where Betty was stooped over the sink, snapping beans for that night’s casserole.
“Little Curtis! Feet!” she shot back at him, which shut his caterwauling up but good. He stood there in his dirty Buster Brown boots, which he would probably never, ever remember to wipe clean on the boot brush outside the door as long as he was her son. His upper lip trembled, and he looked about to burst into tears. “But Momma…” he trailed off. Continue reading Little Curtis, Part 2

Little Curtis, Part 1

The genesis of Little Curtis. Department of Social Services, please ignore the comment that my friend makes, that suggests she will marinate her baby in whiskey.

This was a snarky comment I wrote on a social network in response to my friend Jessie. It turned into a favorite serial of mine.

“Momma! Momma!”
“What is it, hon?”
“Come quick, momma! Somethin’ on the Facebooks!”
She entered the room, wiping her hard hands on her threadbare apron, weary and bedraggled. What was Curtis up to now, when he should be shucking corn for supper. She looked around. He was nowhere near his shucking tub, instead, she found him in front of the computer, staring gape-mouthed at the thing. Continue reading Little Curtis, Part 1

This ends badly.