Mother Gorda's Oasis

Mother Gorda was created in 2002 as a short, short for a quick write contest using the words:
flim flam, bleeding heart, purple, treasure chest, spade, oasis, weed picker. It didn't win that contest, but the Glimmer Train editors liked it and wanted it developed into a longer story. I went one better and developed 4 chapters!

Keeley Gorda is a juju psychic who teams up with a burnt-out detective to track a dark, cult-based pedophile ring operating on a national level. The players include thinly-disguised political figures as well as more common stooges. Eventually, Keeley teaches the sad detective about love, respect for innocence, and touching the soul. He teaches her to love the weeds and dandelions as much as she loves the others. The book was lost in a hard drive crash. I never went back to it; but, it's still simmering there. Homeschooling three children with "special" needs takes a lot of time, commitment, and is primary responsibility.

Thanks to some new friends and helpers, I'll be assigned some respite workers in September. My priority in this life is the children; but, to be whole and balanced is the most important thing that I can be give to them. The respite workers, combined with a move to a bigger place, will provide much needed solitude and I think Mother Gorda will be resurrected. ;o) Here is the short, short story:

Mother Gorda's Oasis Part I

Kneeling in her purple passion garden, on that wetly rank afternoon, Mother Gorda watched as a fiery sunset crept down on top of the heather. Thinking and perspiring as little drips and drops tickled her neck, fuming inside about that "flim flam, silver tongued, low down, potbellied, tripe
spouting, liberal bleeding heart, two-faced Congressman." She just wanted straight talk about
her Medicare dollars, damn him. He said, oh so slippery: "I've got the key, my dear sweet constituent, to the treasure chest of reform." He had the key all right. It turned and released a
poot of noxious fume from his shiny silver Jag. Dissonance. The haves really have not. "He
needs more than a tune up," she mused, and cracked her first smile of the day. "Poot, toot, fart, they're all the same," she muttered. Hot air, beans, broccoli, silly old men in vehicles of youth ..
they all produce fumes and provoke laughter.

But she wasn't laughing today. The darn spade poked her arthritic knee like the windbag politico poked her craw. Aching, throbbing, each heartbeat cascading a new awareness of her current
misery. Treasure chest of reform .. "bah!" .. she snorted to the fuzziest new growth of Baby's
Breath. No money would be had for the new miracle pills that would keep her kneeling in purple
passion for hours instead of minutes. "What does a fool like that potbellied pig know about pain?"

The anger welled in her chest and squeezed out the tears, like a foot-stompin', jug-crackin' shot
of Kentucky moonshine. Her father used to say that. Foot-stompin', jug-crackin' Kentucky
moonshine. He'd never been south of the back porch his whole life. No time for thinking about
the past right now. The dandelions were back! "Bastards!" she croaked and stabbed at the
traitorous yellow buds, Norman Bates style, with her weed picker. "Time to keep busy you old
crybaby," she thought, poking her own funny bone. Mostly hidden now, the blinding orange sun
shimmied further toward that heather. Ahhh, she smiled again. Blessed cool shade covered her
world-wrinkled, tearstained cheeks.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, her heart folded and softened like turning the petal of a pale ivory rose. Mother Gorda inhaled the fragrant oasis that enveloped her body, her mind, her very soul. And
she didn't think again about flim flam, silver Jags, creaky knees or time.

Tink Lecuyer 2002