My knot drabble. I think I may edit it some tomorrow, since there are a few sentences I don't totally like, especially the last few, but I'm in a post-it-now mood.

“Ow!”

“If you’d just sit still it wouldn’t hurt!”

Liar. Combing my hair always hurt. Squirming gives me a bit of a break while she tries to focus my attention on the TV. I’d watch if it were cartoons, but tonight, mom chose the program, and there’s no way I’m going to sit there and watch China Beach while she tears all my hair out.

An hour later, it’s done. I go off to let the fire on my scalp die down, at least until morning, when it will be pulled again in a vain attempt to create neat pigtails.

"Knots" has a different connotation for me than it does for most people, so I can't resist:

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A gentle surge upwards confirms the beeps from the glider's instrument panel, and a bank to the left starts the climb. Two knots up, slow beeps -- adjust the circle, tighten again. Five knots up, faster beeps -- that's better.

Ten minutes and twenty turns later, almost five thousand feet higher, ready to press on. Level out on course, drop the nose, push to cruising speed. The beeps change to the harsh clicks of sinking air. Push the nose down, drive through the sink. Ninety knots forward and ten down. Cover some distance.

Three more thermals like that will get me home.

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edited for nit-picks and word count

Nice, dcp. I like that. I like the focus and the technicality, but how the last line brings it into the realm of the personal.

Oh, I love the different take on "knots", dcp. Very nice.

I really enjoy all the places these drabbles come from, the widely differing POVs. And then we get some weeks where we all seem to be on a similar wavelength. Mine hasn't hit the surface yet, but it's bubbling.

Deb, send clowns, please. I'll read and respond in the morning.

Ooo, "Jury of her Peers," what a kick-ass story.

An attempt at knots...

The men in my life keep trying to teach me knots. When I was six years old, Mark Tuttle finally taught me how to tie my shoes.

My father, maybe seeing in my eager interest the son he never had, taught me about tools and car engines and the uses of half-hitches and the proper way to tie a square knot.

Joe, as part of his tales of life in the Navy, grabbed some twine that was next to the bed and showed off knots I don't remember the names of.

Hubby has shown me the same knots over and over. He forgets and I never remember how to do them. When he's hurting I ask him to tell me stories of the Forest Service, and he remembers knots and when he was strong.

Sorry, I wasn't here earlier Deb. I would be happy to read any additions any time you want to send them.

Too many words, but. Knots.

I learned to make friendship bracelets at eight: rows of colored string carefully knotted, glossy if tied right; frayed and dull if not. I learned Candy Stripe, Arrowhead, Spiral Staircase. I kept some, sold some, gave most away.

I learned to string beads, twist wire into earrings and rings, hold a dozen strings without tangling. Trial and error taught me to make bright, pretty things, and how to tie them so they held together. They were birthday presents and Christmas gifts and "this doesn't fit me; do you want it?"

I taught myself to knit, and to crochet: more knots, loops, rows neatly arrayed, the strings held in my hands. I make hats and scarves and socks. I rarely make things that fit me properly, so they become gifts, like everything else. It's the best way I know to tie myself to the people I give to.

Oh. Aww. That last line just makes it.

Oh, Holli, that is just wonderful.

Okay, it finally jelled.

Lacemaker

She sits upright in the unpadded wooden chair. Her back is ramrod straight, her ankles are neatly crossed, her toes barely reach the floor. The heels of her shoes touch the rail of the chair where the wood is worn, rubbed by generations of heels. The specially-made arm of the chair holds the plump velvet pillow. Bobbins dangle from their threads all around it like a fringe of carved beads. Her fingers fly and she holds seven, eight, nine bobbins at a time, weaving them between her small flexible fingers too fast for the eye to follow. She is eight years old.

Oh, Holli, I really like yours. Especially, like P-C, the last line.