in a micro-monologue
|My dad was replacing rotten steps for the front porch. Once he had new steps in place, I promptly turned them into my personal Mt. Everest, climbing gleefully up and down.|
“Don’t play on the steps, David,” my mom cautioned. “You’ll fall and hurt yourself.”
Oblivious, I continued my adventure, laboriously mounting each step until I reached the top and then reversing the process.
Suddenly, Daddy scooped me up and took me inside, telling Mama, “Keep him here. Don’t let him out.”
Hurt by this sudden extreme punishment, I pouted and sniffled as I peered out through the screen door. When I saw Daddy poking at the eaves of the porch with the prongs of a garden rake, I stammered, “W-w-what’s he d-doin’, Mama?”
“He’s taking down a yellow jacket’s nest, Dear.”
“Yellow jackets? What’s that?”
“They’re bees that will sting you.”
I could hear an angry buzzing sound as I watched him ducking and dodging while he prodded with the rake, until he knocked a gray lump from the eaves and put it in a bag.
Presently, my hero came in, and Mama treated him with a poultice for stings he had suffered while defending me from those monsters.