I belong to two writing groups. We meet the first and Third Saturdays of the month. The first group is writing their memoirs. The second group writes poetry or short stories, often given assignments by our instructor. My newest assignment was to write a "postcard" story containing only 250 words. Our ending should be ironic, quirky or end up with a twist..Here is my effort.
It's not like me to be afraid. Well, okay, I don't like snakes much but I don't think I'd stand and scream like I did as a child. Now I'd give them a wide berth, maybe even cross the street.
When as a child on my way to school a few small garter snakes would creep out on the sidewalk, screaming was a great way to get my mother's attention. She came running with a corn broom after hearing "snakes, snakes" and whisk them promptly into the ditch from whence they came.
Now being an adult I try not to be afraid, but the munching was nerve wracking. I really didn't want to turn my back on it. I could scare it off but some people had told me they could get aggressive when threatened. He was only a couple of feet tall and here I am a little over five feet, surely no contest.
Waving my hands and yelling as loud as possible trying not to disturb the neighbors', I ran across the back yard, clapping my hands now to make lots of noise. He hunched over his lunch even more, wondering why he couldn't eat in peace. He considered my foliage his banquet table. How can a grown woman be afraid of a ground-hog? He soon lumbered off to one of the holes he had dug, one under my husband's workshop and one under my garden shed. I wonder how much a stick of dynamite costs?