What, you don't contemplate the perfect murder in dull moments?

Oh, dear, just me, huh? Oops.

How literal a ladder does it have to be? I'm thinking of a series of hand- and foot-holds that lead to a cliff dwelling.

Connie, one thing is off in there, purely grammar:

Me...am guarding the bottom.

Either the Me is an I, or the "am" has to go.

Ah, well.

Hey, the rest of it is damned near perfect. Cracked me up completely. But me-am = no. Gotta fix one or the other, yo.

craft

"I thought you were done."

"Not even close."

"You're going to do the whole thing?"

"Planning on it."

"You know you're crazy, right?"

"I've seen crazier."

"Aren't your arms going to get tired, working straight up like that?"

"They already are tired."

"So..."

He sits up from the scaffolding, forehead speckled with paint, eyes blazing. "Some things are worth tiring yourself out over. Some things matter. Can't you already start to see it?"

"I can see...what, looks like a hand or something?"

He smiles the quiet smile of the lost and inspired, and returns to his perch atop the ladder.

Nice drabbles.

sj, I was intending to do it this year too, but not sure I'll be able to. I haven't started either. It's been a really rough week.

eta:

the quiet smile of the lost and inspired

I like that line.

Connie, I plan, and tell Greg as I'm planning. The nut is usually proud of my imagination.

Deb, that was just painful.

Another one.

The Dead at Winterland

I'm sweating. It's dark, and loud, and I'm scared shitless.

A roadie came by and grabbed me, just beyond the backstage door. "Hold that ladder," he said, terse, "and don't let go."

The stack above is 62 individual amps. Every time Lesh hits his bass, the stack moves. Someone forgot to anchor it. I'm directly below it.

A cutie with a blond ponytail down his back streaks past me. They're playing "Sugaree" and I'm sweating. He goes up the ladder, and starts clamping down amps.

A couple of years later, we meet again. The Dead at Winterland is two individual memories.

the quiet smile of the lost and inspired

Oh, that's nice

Lovely drabbles. I especially love Deb's second one and Liese's.

Now, hey, lookit me, how many weeks have I come up dry? And now connie and I are on the same wavelength. 100 words, 101, somewhere in there:

"Hand me the Phillips," says a voice above. I look down into the toolbox.

"The red-handled one?"

"No. The black."

I can't reach it without taking a step, but I shift my right foot over to the left foot's spot and call, "don't move" before taking the step with the left foot. Screwdriver in hand, I maneuver each foot back into place, braced against the skid of the ladder, and hand up the tool. I lean my weight onto the side rails, slowly, gently, technique learned with practice.

Our places may switch, but always, one of us climbs, the other anchors.