Twenty-third, fifthAnother one of these tag memes. I thought I'd get hit eventually. Thanks a bunch, Timmy G.
Here are the instructions, not, I notice, followed by all: Find your twenty-third post. Pluck out your fifth sentence. Then--write a short fictional piece with the sentence as the first one in the piece. And tag five more people in the blogosphere.
Small Dead Animals
The Amazing Wonderdog
Cathie from Canada
My brief contribution:
Yet we are politically selective, if not outright cynical, in what we deem to be "terrorism." So I claimed at the campfire when we were into one of those late-night beer-fueled discussions, and I was holding forth as usual, not having a blog at the time, and I suspect I slurred my words a little. Al Caider, who lives just down the street from me, wasn't so sure, though. As far as he's concerned, the kid who delivers the papers is a terrorist, for spreading news of terrorism. The old lady next door to him is a terrorist, because she lets ragweed grow rampant in her garden. In fact, when you come right down to it, Al says, everybody’s a terrorist.
"Does that apply to you?" George Bouche quizzed him. "You don’t drink, you won't touch the hot-dogs--hell, you could be one of those Moozlims we keep hearing about."
"I don’t drink because I used to drink. And road-kill sausages aren't my thing," said Al.
George was unconvinced. "OK, what's that little rug you keep carrying around with you?"
"It's a toupee," said Al, sounding a little miffed.
That shut George down for a while. Then, being clever, "Got your Christmas lights up yet?"
"What's this, Guantanamo?" Al asked, stung beyond endurance. "This is supposed to be a barbecue, not Abu Ghraib."
The rest is a little hazy. A small knot of former friends bore down on Al. I remember corn cobs, shorn of their kernels, spilling off his paper plate. I remember cell-phones in use, I remember a car showing up...but I can barely remember Al, I can't even visualize his face, or his wife's face, or his eight-year-old son's face.
Our summer get-togethers aren't the same now. You have to go through a metal detector, we've got Men in Black types patrolling the perimeter, and, worst of all, my buddies have to go through a security check, every time, before they're allowed to get near the fire.
But, you know what? The hot-dogs taste as good as ever. And what else really matters at a barbecue?