TGIF’n Good Day

Today I break the rules. It is May Day, and I’m feeling light, bright and rebellious. Emotionally festooned in ribbons and flowers, I skip and dance about the hyperbole of this bonny spring day, free to be me. Plus, as TBP’s Empress, I, that is, We (since I’m hyperbolizing) reserve the right to respond as We please to TBP’s Grand Duke Kerr’s OLWG #11 (tnkerr started the whole “royal we” thing, not me!)

So, I will write, but only as I find inspiration in today’s TBP OLWG. I will not time myself because I’m feeling not only the need to write, but write and write and write! I will not keep to one, two or just three prompts, for my fervor must not be contained. I will incorporate as many “prompts” that move me in the preamble. I am WOMAN, hear me roar!

OK. Enough of that. Onward…



top downThe end of a f’n good day, Brian thought. In just one week he breezed through the ridiculously large project thrown at him from out of nowhere on Monday, and by 2:30 pm today, Friday, the director signed off on it and delivered it to their client. Whether anyone gave a damn he got that bad-boy out the door so fast, Brian would never know. Nor did he care. All that mattered to him was that he met the challenge full-on, and made the company look great in the process.

By the time 5:00 pm rolled around, the clouds otherwise forecast as here to stay through the weekend had completely vanished. There was nothing but bright sunshine and blue sky from one horizon to the other. He rolled back the top of his convertible and decided to take the coast highway home. Maybe stop at The Cliffhanger for a couple of beers. They’ll have the playoffs on, and if he left right now, he’d be in time to catch a bit of the game; see how the Sharks were faring. After all, he thought, he had earned a night out. He shot a couple texts to friends Jim and Trevor letting them know his plan, and then called his wife, Odessa.

“Park the kids with Renée and meet me at Cliffhangers.”

“Renée and Janus have that thing this weekend, so…”

“Damn. Forgot that.”

“That’s OK. I promised Meredith this morning she could have Reilly over, anyway, which will probably turn into a sleep-over, so just as well.”

“What’s my bud up to?”

Odessa paused. “Jake’s at Emmett’s.”

“I thought we agreed to discourage Jake spending time with that kid.”

“Yes,” Odessa said, “but it’s been a really long time since they’ve hung out after school, and Jake pleaded with me this afternoon to go to his house. The Science Fair’s coming up next month and the boys have a project they want to do together.”

“That kid’s gonna blow the both of ‘em up. Where are they?”

“I said. At Emmett’s.”

Brian thought about Emmett’s dad. He claimed he was a writer of some sort, some kind of la-di-da researcher with a PhD, but the couple of times they’d met when picking up or dropping their kids off at school or soccer, Brian thought he seemed OK.

“Yeah, well, whatever. So. No Cliffhanger tonight for you?”

Odessa smiled, knowing her husband preferred a night at Cliffhanger with just the guys. “Jim or Trev gonna be there?”

“Dunno. Just sent them a text. Probably. Sharks are playing tonight.”

“Have fun, then.” Odessa said.

“ ‘K. Love ya. Mean it.”

“Me too. Hey, and be quiet when you get home, ‘K? Like I said, we’ll probably have Reilly spending the night. I don’t need her going back to her parents telling them about you getting home after midnight and being loud, waking everyone up.”

“You really don’t like her folks, do you.”

“I really don’t.”

“ ‘K. Promise. Bye.” Brian hung up.

“SAAAHHWWEEET,” he cried out loud. Boy’s night! A giant grin spread across his face. Kids off with their friends, Dessa probably wanting time to herself anyway to dig into one of her perpetual projects…and, if they didn’t get too crazy tonight, he’d probably be able to wrangle nine holes out of Jim and Trevor tomorrow as well. The weekend was really looking up.

++++++++++++++

rec room“SHHH!!!” Brian scolded Jim and Trevor as they made their way downstairs to Brian’s rec room. “We have to be quiet! My daughter’s got her friend over and I promised Dessa we’d be quiet!”

“SHHH!!!” Trevor mocked his friend, making a goofy face. “Be berwy berwy qwiat. We’re huntin’ wabbits!”

“Just shut the f— up.” Brian scolded again.

He turned on the TV and the disc player as Jim and Trevor helped themselves to beer in the fridge. The three men plopped down on the huge wrap-around sofa, popped open their beers and waited for their favorite porn, “She’s Just Gotta Get Naked When It Rains” to start. Per usual, Brian set the player on the lowest volume and on 3x fast forward.

Dessa woke when she heard the telltale giggles through the floor boards of their bedroom. The plan was, when they built out the basement under their bedroom, she’d be able to keep an ear on the kids when then were down there with their friends late at night. Not her husband and his buddies. She threw on her robe and went downstairs.

“Shit!” Jim whispered like a teen being caught out by a parent. “Someone’s up!”

“Jus’ d’wife,” Brian slurred.

“Hey guys,” Odessa casually called out as she came down the stairs. “I see the nympho rain goddess is up to her usual tricks.” She leaned over the back of the sofa and gave her husband a quick smooch on the cheek.

“Hey Dess,” the men said, barely acknowledging her presence.

“Never ceases to amaze,” she mused, watching the action on the TV, “that even in super-fast forward, he still takes forever to get to the point.”

“And, in fast forward it never stops being the funniest shit, ever,” Trevor smiled up at her. The scene on the TV changed to an orgy.

“That’s my cue to leave.” Odessa tussled Brian’s hair. He grabbed her hand, gave it a quick kiss, gave it back to her and she went back to bed.

++++++++++++++++

The next day, Brian woke with a hangover that could kill an elephant. He rolled over, “visualizing whirled peas,” as he used to call bed spins in his college days. Suddenly realizing he’d not made it upstairs to bed, he sat up and tried to get his bearings. Jim was on the opposite end of the huge sofa, snoring away. Brian vaguely remembered Trevor saying he was calling a cab.

Stumbling as he made his way upstairs, Brian peered out the front window, relieved to see Trevor’s car in the driveway. He turned to head down the hall to the master bedroom and ran smack into his daughter Meredith and her friend Reilly.

“Oh, my God, Dad! You look like shit!”

“Language, young lady,” Brian admonished just as Odessa barked loudly from the kitchen, “Girls! Pancakes!” The girls swept by Brian, his daughter’s friend giving him a look of exaggerated disgust as she passed. So much for not blowing that scene, Brian thought. He’ll have to pay for it sooner or later. No matter how hard he tried not to, he always managed to let Dessa down.

As he stood in the shower, leaning forward on his hands to help steady his still wobbly legs, Odessa came in with a huge mug of coffee she handed to him through the shower curtain, and announced she was taking the girls to the mall, a movie, and then out for a bite. They wouldn’t be back until after dinner.

“So, you guys are on your own today. Jake’s sulking in his room about what I don’t know. He says he talking to his gaming buddy, ‘Cheshire Cat,’ but won’t open his door. I’m sick of arguing with him about the closed door rule.” Dessa’s tone was an unmistakable mix of fury and impatience. “Please don’t ignore him. Take him out somewhere today, OK? Get him the hell away from the computer.”

“Hmph,” was all Brian was able to say in response.

“And, Jim’s asleep downstairs. I have no idea where Trev ended up.”

“I know,” Brian groaned.

“Yeah, well, you guys had your fun last night. Today’s just another one of those times you’ve won the big lottery, so…get with it.”

Dessa always used the phrase ironically. They’d been seeing each other just a few months when she got pregnant with Jake, and it was how she broke the news to Brian: “Looks like you’ve won the big lottery! Me and a baby!” These days she said it only when she was ticked-off. A minute later Brian heard the door to the garage slam.

He had no idea what to do about his son. The kid was a puzzle to both of them. He knew he’d end up being a dick and getting mad, which seemed the only way to get Jake to respond to anything, and he resented his son for it.

But, first things first. More coffee, get Jim up, and call Trevor to come get his car.

So much for a great weekend.


I count 11 words or phrases in the prompt preamble I used in my story, completely by coincidence of this being the 11th OLWG prompt. Therefore, I choose the number ELEVEN for next week’s prompt.

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I want to be R.Sativus when I grow up

aprilImitation is the one of the sincerest forms of flattery, so they say. I look forward to R. Sativus‘ Character Sketch series of posts, because I want to be able to describe people the way April sees them: honestly, with a touch of irony and a whole lot of empathy. She works in a perfect place for people watching and the woman doesn’t miss a single detail about the people who walk by her place of employment. But without her objectivity and canny ability to feel their joy, sadness, anger and contentment, it would all come off as snarky commentary.

I am at one of my favorite neighborhood places. “Favorite,” because they have secure WiFi and are not Starbucks, or its like.  Inspired by the collection of characters here tonight, I am going to try my hand at “being April” and sketch the characters I see.


As I approach the establishment, I see an older gentleman sitting at one of the outdoor tables. His eyes are absent, as though he’s lost in thought. His body shudders a bit, and then he stands up, uneasy on his feet. He has a backpack and is wearing exceptionally over-sized dirty pants and an equally dirty over-sized sweatshirt. But, his hair is clean, cut short, and he is shaven. As he passes me, the smell of old urine is unmistakable. He’s left a beer on the table, poured in a glass, 2/3rds full. He’s a curious sight for this place. As I walk in the door, I wonder who he is.

I arrive a half an hour after Happy Hour, so most people are settling up their bills and heading out. I wait a couple of minutes for the coveted table under the kind-of bay window to be cleared. As I take my seat, a tall-ish, plump, but definitely busty woman walks in like she owns the place. Cherry-bomb red, business-tailored, form-fitting dress, capped by a bright, shiny made-up face and genuine smile, with straight, thin, blonde tresses that hang flat-as-a-board below her shoulders. Her left forearm extends upwards, her car keys in her hand and a blatant display of “see I own a super-expensive designer bag” looped over her arm as she takes enormous strides in flesh-toned pointy-toed stilettos dotted with silver studs riveted down the entire back of her shoes. Her destination is revealed when a table bursts into cheers. “There’s the birthday girl!” She’s further greeted with a glass of champagne and a bouquet of bright yellow flowers.

Not long after that, her polar-opposite walks in: Short, skinny, hunch-over a bit, cropped brown hair almost entirely covered by a backwards NFL ball cap and a pair of Oakely sunglasses hanging down from her ears under her chin. A black down vest, crew neck t-shirt, saggy-butt b-boy jeans. She slides into an open table, tells the waitress she meeting someone, and immediately starts texting.

Her friend comes in a few minutes later, rushed and a little frantic. Her head is completely shaved, save the jet-black pompadour Mohawk, black button down shirt, tight rolled up jeans and black motorcycle boots. She orders whiskey-sours for both of them. Jameson. The smaller woman corrects. “Chardonnay for me. Thanks.” They spend the rest of the time I’m here in serious, animated conversation. When they leave, they grab hands and kiss, giving one another the biggest, sweetest smiles I’ve seen lovers give each other in a long time.

I come to this place often enough to know who is the barfly. But he is not here tonight. An older man, always drunk, very drunk, but never obnoxious. He typically sits at the bar close to the door, too zoned-out on whatever drink anyone is buying for him to be able to focus. I wonder why he isn’t here tonight?

A trio comes in: A middle-aged balding man in jeans and a t-shirt, and a couple of women, one younger than the other, dressed as casually as he. They sit at the table next to me. The women sit across from one another. I furtively glance at the woman opposite me. A long blonde bob, simple navy blue sweater layered with a pink t-shirt, and jeans. Fashionable, but sensible lace-up walking athletic shoes. It’s not until she stops smiling broadly and lets her face drop that I notice she’s a good deal older than I guessed. She and the young woman, who I do not get a good look at, start chatting. He settles in with his phone, disinterested with their conversation. A waitress, who’ve I’ve never seen before, comes by and the three of them explode with “Oh My God!” and “You’re still here?!” The man jokes, “Oh, well, there goes my already bad day!” and laughs. The young waitress ignores his comment. It occurs to me she probably works in the kitchen. The women order salads and he orders a burger. All order glasses of wine. The woman devour their salads in a matter of 2 or maybe 3 minutes, hunched over the table, totally focused on shoving food in their mouths. The man sits back, eats slowly, and cannot finish his burger. The young woman picks at the remains on his plate.

As they get up to leave, a gaggle of six elderly women walk in. The young woman knows two of the elderly women and they happily greet one another. Another woman in the gaggle carries a vase of Calla Lillies. I hear the word, “birthday.” Another! All of the elderly woman are smartly dressed and coiffed. None of them move with any ease. How is it, I wonder to myself, that as we age, walking becomes so awkward? The woman with the lilies moves through her crowd of friends with a sudden burst of mobility, holding the vase of flowers high over her head. “Let’s go back to the back,” she directs. The rest follow as fast as their aged legs will allow.

A guy walks in and plops onto an open bar stool, followed by his girlfriend. He’s in a beige wool short-billed cap, khaki Carhartt jacket, a black leather “man purse” strapped across his body, clean hair cut, sporting one of those “oops, I forgot to shave since last weekend” beards, and wearing a khaki Utlikilt that perfectly matches his hat and his coat. He does one of those chin-up nods to the barkeep and orders a stout. It’s the first time I’ve seen any man in a Utilikilt so fashionably coordinated. I can’t help but blatantly stare at him.

His tiny pixie, nondescript mouse of a Tomboy girlfriend takes the stool next to him. He smiles a gigantic grin and wraps a long arm around her waist, giving the side of her leg a squeeze. She responds in the most aloof manner a person can, avoiding his gaze. “Beer?” he asks her. “Yeah,” she says, offering nothing more. He orders her a Fat Tire.

As I continue to stare at the guy in the Utilikilt, I wonder who of my nephews ended up with my dad’s black kilt.

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This isn’t a story, it’s a play (scene II)

TBP’s Writer’s Guild #10 prompt: Well, there you are then; Come here child; It is sometimes vital to be misunderstood


For the first scene of This isn’t a story, it’s a play, click here

B: Well, there you are then.
A: What do you mean?
B: I mean, I made a castle on a rock next to the Hudson River, and you saw a rocket and blue flames.
A: Plumes.
B: Anyway. There you are.

(pause)

A: Let’s ask the kid. Hey! Kid! Come here!

(a child enters)

A: Come here.

(the child walks over to A & B)

A: (Holding up the strange sculpture) What do you see?

(the child shrugs)

B: It’s OK, you can say. Tell me! I want to know your opinion.
C: You made this?
B: Yes.
C: (shrugs again) I dunno. I looks kinda like, maybe, a…a… an arrow with a (gesturing with a finger)… a… thing…
B: Never mind. That’s OK.
A: See, even the kid doesn’t get it.
B: Art is only as you see it. You don’t have to get it.
A: Yeah, but that’s the thing, right? If I don’t get it, I don’t know what I’m looking at!
B: That’s not the point.
A: Did you mean this to be abstract, like modern art?
B: No. I mean, I didn’t mean it to be all that literal either. I was working with candy wrappers and other crap. You don’t build castles from candy wrappers and other crap.
A: I’m not trying to be a critic; I just want to know what you were thinking! I care about you. I care about what you do and what you think.
B: Love doesn’t mean having to be understood all the time.
A: Now you’re pouting.
C: Can I be excused?
A&B (talking over each other): Yes, yes…go play/finish your homework… (C exits)

(A&B sit in silence)

A: Ya know, the more I look at it, I see the castle. I get it.
B: (sighs loudly) Yeah, OK.
A: But, you see how I thought it was a rocket?
(B drops her head in her hands)

=scene=


Wrote this pretty fast, like in 20 min, and edited for another 10 or so. Formatting for the blog? I never count that time

TWO

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Necessity is a mother

duck tapedWriting with a pen on paper is perfectly fine, until you want to share what you’ve written with a group of a couple hundred people for whom you do not have mailing addresses. Or a copier to make 200 copies. Or postage stamps, for that matter. Weren’t stamps recently in the news? Something about the cost of a stamp going down? How much does a stamp cost these days, anyway?

Never mind. I digress. Sort of.

The point is this: I resorted to writing with pen on paper when my laptop melted down last week. Literally. The AC power connector—not the adapter, but the connector inside the machine—decided it was just too much work to maintain a firm connection to the adapter. Loose power connections are a bad thing. The friction created does things like overheat other things that function better when not overheated.

For the time being, though, I decided to muddle through. I have other circumstances these days requiring a stash of cash, so an expensive repair or new computer was not in the budget. I’d just have to make do. For weeks I’ve been doing all sorts of odd things to get the adapter to connect to the AC, like pulling the cord up and over the cover, and then duck taping the cord to the lid to maintain tension. Hey, it worked. Until it didn’t.

One minute you are sitting pleasantly on the couch, sipping a glass of wine, listening to music and writing a lovely little story, when suddenly, like being t-boned by a car you didn’t see run a red light, your world is in total chaos and you are reeling from the destruction all around you. As my laptop gave off this loud POP, I reflexively screamed and shoved the thing off my lap. The cover slammed down, pinching the adapter cord between the screen and the keyboard, internally smashing the LCD. The AC connection had finally fried, and in the process, I damaged the screen. It looks like someone threw a rock at it, but from the inside.

Sometime today Amazon’s stork will deliver a new bundle of joy, but in the meantime I’ve had to channel McGyver to figure out a way to jerry-rig my old machine and equipment together. I am writing this post using an ancient desktop PC, the size and weight of two cinder blocks (when I bought it all those years ago, I asked the man what the little rectangle “outlets”were for. “USB drives,” he said. “What are those?” I asked. Now you know how old the machine is!) It took the better part of 30 minutes to boot up and update the billion or so patches and such. Fortunately, I still had an old network cable lying around so I can get on the internet. I restarted it, and plugged in the external hard drive I use to back up my laptop to get at those files. Discovered the monitor is also toast, so figured out how to hook up my HDTV to it.

Necessity is truly the mother of invention.



 

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From the “Out of the Mouths of Babes” File

tlheaA slightly off-color story from the Out of the Mouths of Babes File…

The other day at lunch, a co-worker told us a funny story about her 8 year-old grandson. Her grandson had a homework assignment to learn the word, “frugal,” and then use it in a book report of a fairy tale of his choice.

The boy looked up the word “frugal” and learned it meant to be thrifty, or economical. He asked if that meant to save things like loose change and was told that, yes, it was something like that.

He told his parents he couldn’t think what fairy tale would work, but then he remembered the story of Rapunzel, and sat down to write. The next day at breakfast he proudly read his report to his parents:

“Rapunzel was stuck in a tower and couldn’t get out because there wasn’t any doors just one window. She saw a handsome Prince on his horse and throwed her hair out the window and yelled, FRUGAL ME! FRUGAL ME! and he did and they got married and lived happily ever after. The End.”


 

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Picture This

TBP Online Writer’s Guild #8 prompts this week are: I first saw her on the midway; Everybody’s story is more interesting than mine; You’re everything that I am.


Romance NovelKara scrolled through her Facebook page. There were pictures after pictures of people on vacation, getting married, out for a night on the town, at their children’s ball games or birthday parties, hunting for Easter eggs, opening gifts at Christmas, sipping wine at a winery in Italy, posing with a celebrity they “ran into” on the street in New York, in the bleachers of the world championships Sao Paulo, making a stupid face at a guard on the Great Wall of China, sailing, biking, hiking, camping, surfing, hang gliding, saving the whales, replanting the rain forest, being blessed by the Pope, working in soup kitchens, standing in the front doorway of their new 4,000 sq ft home.

A friend asked her once why she didn’t post pictures on Facebook. Kara said, “I don’t have a life. I get up, I shower, dress, get the kids up, shower and dress them, feed them, feed Bruce, shove everyone in the car, take them to school and work, come home, walk the dogs, clean the house, run errands, pay bills, make phone calls to plumbers, lawyers and doctors on my parents’ behalf, shove the dogs in the car and pick up the kids from school and either run them to their after school stuff, or drop them at my in-laws, pick up Bruce at work, pick up the kids again, go home, make dinner, harass my children to do their homework, argue with Bruce about God-knows whatever the issue is that day, shove the kids in bed and then pour myself into bed next to my husband who is already snoring away.

“I mean, it’s no wonder women like me get lost in torrid Romance novels. You know, the kind about the boy and the girl that meet at the county fair; she the only and beloved daughter of that year’s Parade Grand Marshall, and he a lowly manure-raking stall boy her older brother routinely bullies at school. But their love is too strong, too big, too hot to be confined by narrow-minded twits like the cold-hearted people of their small town of Nowhere Nebraska.”

Kara’s friend looked at her a moment, and then said, “So, you don’t post pictures to Facebook because you read Romance novels?”

“Yes,” Kara flatly stated. “That is exactly why. Nobody needs to see a picture of that.”


Confession: I forgot to time myself. But, when I looked at the clock, I’m pretty sure I’d been writing for less than an hour. So, to be fair and within the rules, I limited my editing time to just 15 min. 

number 9…number 9…number 9…

 

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Mary in the Sky with Diamonds

This week’s TBP’s Online Writer’s Guild prompts are: 1. Now one of us has to tell Mary; 2. conflict diamonds; 3. The sky is so much bigger here.


sky diamondsTerri and Rob sat on the back deck of Becky and Jeff’s large ranch-style home, sipping tall cool drinks and enjoying how the long soft shadows of a summer night’s gentle sunset swept slowly across the valley and the hills beyond. It had been a very long drive and they were happy to have made it there before night-fall. Becky and Jeff came out with a trays of snacks and a pitcher for refills.

“How close did you say your nearest neighbor is?” Rob asked.

“Just over those hills. ‘Bout 3 miles, I think,” Jeff said.

“How is it the sky seems so much bigger here? It’s so amazing!” Terri exclaimed.

“Who knows,” Becky shrugged. “Low horizon. Not a lot of trees. It’s wonderful, though.”

The couples helped themselves to the food and refilled their drinks. Rob said, “Does anyone know what the plan is tomorrow? Do we just show up at the church?”

“Yeah, we’re supposed to get there by 4:30 for the rehearsal, though why Mary asked you guys to go to that and not just meet everyone at the restaurant, I don’t know.”

“Oh,” Rob said, “that’s because she wants me to appraise her ring.”

“She couldn’t get it appraised at a jeweler? I mean, by someone in town?” Jeff asked.

“She trusts me,” Rob said. “She’s afraid of it being a blood diamond, and she said she only trusts me to look at it.”

“What’s the likelihood of that?” Becky asked. Rob shrugged. “Depends,” he replied.

“What will you do if it is?” Jeff asked.

“I guess, I’ll just have to tell her. Let her decide what to do.”

“LUCY IN THE SKY WITH DIAMONDS!” Terri suddenly sang out. “LUCY, OOHHH, LUCY!”

Everyone laughed.

“There’s no neighbors to piss off, right?” Terri asked. Becky and Jeff nodded. Terri sang out in full voice again, “LUCY IN THE SKY WITH DIAMONDS, OOOOHHH, OOOOHHH!….”

“Yup,” Rob smiled at his wife. “It’s gonna be a fun weekend.”


Took only 20 min to write, but edited off and on for another 30 after that. I choose the number 1 for next week’s prompt.

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Damn Cold

purple gargoyleViolet The Gargoyle sat shivering in the harsh light of the bleak mid-winter morning, wondering where her warm, cozy sweats had got to. Why did they forget, again, to light the fireplaces? Blasted Victorians.

Another for TBP’s I Ain’t Foolin’ prompt, this one from April.

This is my father’s “Gargoyle Guy,” given to him on his 75th birthday. He adored him. Gargoyle Guy resided in many places around my parent’s house, primarily because my mother kept trying to move him out of the prominently placed sites my father would put him. The picture, sans the purple hue, was taken by my father.

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How well we loved thee

C&Bs BLTSaul stared at the headstone. B L T was all that they put, just those three, simple letters. He took the handkerchief from his breast coat pocket, wiped the tears from his eyes and gave his nose a long blow.

Why hadn’t they shown more respect? Why didn’t they sing the praises of the one that brought so many so much joy; so much gratification?

Had they asked him, Saul would have insisted the stone read:

Bacon, lettuce and tomato, with mayo and a touch of mustard, on toasted sourdough, served with a side of steak fries. How very well we, and our bathroom scales knew thee. Beloved comfort food.


For TBP’s I Ain’t Foolin’ response to KarmenF’s Picture Prompt 

 

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This isn’t a story, it’s a play

staged readingA: I want to see!
B: No, not yet.
A: When?
B: Soon. Pretty soon. Not long now. Just wait.

(pause)

A: Now?
B: No, not yet, I said. Wait!
A: I want to see! Just let me see.
B: You have to wait. I promise you can see it soon. Very soon.

 

(long pause)

 

A: I…
B: No! Not yet!

(pause)

A: I’m not a patient person. Never have been.
B: I know.

(pause)

A: This sucks.
B: Yeah, I know. Not much longer, but not … quite…yet. Hang in there. I promise it’ll be worth the wait.

(pause)

A: Whoever said patience is a virtue sucks.

(pause)

B: OK, ready?
A: For days.
B: TA-DA!
A: Wha… what is it?
B: It’s a castle! On a rock! And the moss is the grass that surrounds it, and it’s situated on the Hudson River, and the blue taffy wrappers are the river!
A: I don’t see it.
B: Really? Then, what do you see?
A: A kind-of rocket blasting off, and the plume of its jets are green and blue.
B: Huh.

(pause)

=scene=


I wrote in 23 min., which is practically unheard of for me, and edited in 10, which is also pretty fast, AND…I tacked on another TBP prompt, “Not Yet,” which seemed a perfect fit with “soon, soon.”

But, I have a confession: I wrote this on Saturday. As TPB’s Grand Poobah, I have the ability to look into the future, particularly when tnkerr writes his Writer’s Guild prompts a few days in advance and saves them in the TBP Draft file. ;^)

I choose the number “50” for next week’s prompt.

Happy Easter!

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