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They are my monkeys

The boys were a grappling tangle of spindly arms and legs. Fingers snatched handfuls of hair and teeth gnashed down on tender skin.

When a coffee table got kicked over, the crash of glass and wood brought down the wrath of the Grand Dam.

“What’s this kerfuffle?” Grandma O’Reilly stomped into the room, pulling the wrestling siblings apart, keeping a tight grip on the two, still swinging furious fists. “Where is your mother?”

From out of grandma’s periphery, a flash of color whizzed by. A masked figure launched a diving crossbody over the couch.

“There she is,” the twins chimed.

Inspiration: Parent
Kerfuffle and/or Fuss

6 thoughts on “They are my monkeys Leave a comment

  1. Funny story. The word “kerfuffle” made me think of some now-antique words that my grandparents used. For instance, they’d have called the couch in your story a “davenport.” I used that word myself until I started getting quizzical looks from people my own age and younger.

    Liked by 1 person

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