In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Calling Uncle Bob.”
I tried for the second time. Nothing.
I repeated the motion one more time. I could tell that I was getting tired and attempted with a little less energy this time. Again, nothing.
I sat back down and wiped sweat off my forehead. Then, I looked at it.
It sat there motionless, quietly, and frigidly.
This was not the first time.
Just the other day, when sun was peekabooing, it was not so hot (sorry, the rest of the freezing world), breeze was caressing my face, and I was feeling good, I came outside. I checked to see if everything looked all right with it, set everything for it, and tried to start it without success. I spent a long time with it and, needless to say, ended not finishing the work that I intended to do that day.
What do I do now? Read the manual again? Or, call somebody? Who?
It was laughing at me.
At me who could not control it at will, who hated it for controlling me, who would get frustrated, who would waste all day trying to figure out what is wrong with it, and, in the end, would give up with my tail between my legs.
I could read its thinking.
Not this time, pal, not today.
I stood up, dumped the remaining fuel, stowed it away and went inside to write.