Mount DannyA Story by ChelseaA mountain of laundry.Mount
Danny A little boy rolls around the floor of his bedroom.
He enjoys the way his hair stands on end, the works of electricity. He runs his
hands through his spiky hair and grins. It reminds him of the messy hair of Albert
Einstein, his hero in his life. His rolling is interrupted. “Danny, get those clothes up off your
floor,” His mother's voice nags. At five years of age, he rolls his eyeballs.
A trick taught by his older sister. His eyes scan the floor, he cannot grasp
the concept his mother is presenting. It’
just laundry…… His mother stalks out of the room, huffing
and puffing in a fit of anger. Danny continues rolling on the floor. He has a
goofy smile plastered to his face, a face that anybody would love to slap off. His rolling is interrupted. “Danny, pick your clothes up,” his sister’s
voice whines. She tosses her long blond ponytail and stares
at him with a bored look. Danny nods, he knows better than to tangle with
Lizzie. He walks about to a pile of clothes and starts picking them off. His
sister satisfied, leaves, with a snotty air to her. Danny is a bit steamed. He goes to his
dresser and opens the top drawer. In it is a pile of his t-shirts. He scoops
the load, an entire thirty and thrusts them upon the floor. He stomps in
delight at his mess. Take
that Lizzie. Danny returns to rolling to the floor. The
carpet is irritating his skin but he pays no attention. He pretends he’s a car
of some sort. Blowing spit bubbles pretend it’s the gas, making annoying sounds
for the engine. His rolling is interrupted. “Danny, your mother, sister, and I have all
asked you to pick your clothes up. You haven’t so, have it your way. Leave your
room a pen for pigs,” his Father’s voice says. It sounds scratchy, like one of
smokers’. But he’s never smoked a cigarette in his life. Danny sticks his tongue out at his Dad as
he leaves the room. Danny pulls all his clothes out and makes a mountain of dirty
laundry. Mt. Danny. © 2011 ChelseaAuthor's Note
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StatsAuthorChelseaCanadaAboutPoetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance. - Carl Sandburg Hello! Thank you for checkin’ out my page on the café! My name is Chelsea or Chels. I’m fifteen years old, your .. more..Writing
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