It’s About Time

008DF38A-14DD-49B4-A0A4-9E38A824CD2C“A package came for you,” Diane told her roommate.

“It’s about time,” Barry said.

“What time is it?

“It’s time to go,” Barry said.

“What are you talking about?” Diane asked.

“I don’t have time for this,” Barry said.

“Is it from Anita, your ex?” Diane asked. “Maybe she wants to get back together. After all, time heals all wounds.”

“She’s a waste of time,” Barry said.

“But,” Diane responded, “time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.”

“Oh right,” Barry said. “Let the good times roll.”

“Stop being sarcastic.” Diane said. “Aren’t you going to take the time to open the package?”

“I guess this is just as good a time as any,” Barry said, and he proceeded to open the package.

“So what is it?” Diane asked.

“It’s from Anita,” Barry answered. He lifted the watch from the box. “There’s a note attached,” he said. “It reads, ‘Time is on your side.’”

“What do you think she means by that?” Diane asked.

“I honestly don’t know. I guess I’ll ask her next time I see her,” Barry said.

“Well there’s no time like the present,” Diane said. “Call her.”

Barry looked at his watch. “Do you see what time it is? I’m late.” He ran out of the house.

Diane shook her head and said aloud, “Time flies when you’re having fun.”


1ADE4F5C-1676-4A9B-9A62-8B7A4EE431CEWritten for Rachel Poli’s Time To Write Sentence Starter prompt and for the Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Tale Weaver prompt.

Time To Write — Tall Tales

B40B4FE4-121C-41F9-A896-30E6664F8470

“I’m sick to death of the way you’re always making things up, Michael,” his mother scolded her son. “Don’t you know that you should always tell the truth and never lie.”

“Helen,” Michael’s father interrupted, “cut the kid some slack. He’s just got a vivid imagination, is all.”

“George,” Helen said, “I can’t believe you’re defending him. He’s always telling these tall tales and I never know whether to believe him or not.”

“Let me handle this, Helen,” George said to his wife. Then he turned to Michael and said, “How old are you now, son?”

“I’m twelve, Dad,” Michael said. “You know that.”

“And for a twelve year old boy, you’ve got quite a wonderful talent,” George said. “You, Michael, are a natural born storyteller. You weave such interesting tales and you tell them so very well.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Michael said, beaming.

“I have a suggestion,” George said. “You have such a flare for telling stories that I think you should start writing your stories down in a notebook. Be creative, son. Exercise your imagination. And then, when you’ve written a few stories, you can read them out loud to your mother and me. Maybe someday some of the stories you write might even be published in a magazine or a book.”

“Really, Dad?” Michael said excitedly. “I would love that.”

“But there’s one catch, Michael,” George said. “You can make up and write all the stories you can think of in your notebook. But when your mother or I ask you questions, you must always tell us the truth. No making things up. You only make things up for the stories you write in your notebook. So, do we have a deal, Michael?”

“Yes, we have a deal,” Michael said, and then he ran over and hugged his father.

“Great,” George said. “Now go be the fantastic storyteller that I know you can be.”

“I’m gonna start writing my first story right now,” Michael said as he stood up and started running toward his bedroom.

But before Michael took two steps, George grabbed him by his arm and said, “First go hug your mother and tell her you love her.”


Written for Rachel Poli’s Time To Write prompt, where we’re asked to write a story about a storyteller.

Time To Write — Six Things

28AE0E6E-9D29-48F3-AD07-5E139DC71714“Why are you crying, sweetheart,” Anita’s grandfather asked her.

Anita stopped crying and attempted to wipe away her tears. “Because, Poppy,” she said, “there’s a talent show at school next week and I told everyone that I could make balloon animals, but I’ve tried and tried and I just can’t seem to do it right.”

“Well, honey,” he said, “It takes a lot of hot air to blow up the balloons like that and maybe you’re having trouble because you’re not full of hot air, like some people I know.”

“But if I don’t have enough hot air,” Anita said, “how am I going to win the talent show? And look,” she said, pointing to a crudely drawn banner, “I already made a sign to advertise my balloon animals.”

“Maybe, Anita, it would be best to find another talent for you to show off to your classmates,” her grandfather suggested. “Let’s go out and get an ice cream cone and talk about what your real talents are.”


Written for Rachel Poli’s Time To Write prompt, using the random words animals, balloon, and best, and for Teresa’s Three Things Challenge where the the things are crying, grandfather, and banner.

 

 

Time To Write — The Kit

246A3E2B-C177-4928-9DA4-34E7DA53B50A“You have everything, right?” my wife asked.

“Of course,” I said. “I’m not stupid.”

“Okay, let’s take inventory,” she said. “Six gallons of water.”

“Check.”

“Enough non-perishable food to last three days.”

“Check.”

“A battery-powered or hand crank radio.”

“Check.”

“A Flashlight, a first aid kit, extra batteries.”

“Check, check, check.”

“A whistle to signal for help.”

“Check.”

“A dust mask to help filter contaminated air and plastic sheeting and duct tape to shelter-in-place.

“Check and check.”

“Moist towelettes, garbage bags, and plastic ties for personal sanitation.”

“Eww, check.”

“A wrench or pliers to turn off utilities.”

“A manual can opener for food.”

“Check.”

“A local paper map of the area.”

“That was hard to find, but check.”

“Our cellphones with backup batteries.”

“Check,” I said. “Anything else?”

“Nope,” she said. “I think we got it covered.”

“Oh wait, I thought of one other thing,” I said.

“What else?”

“Earplugs for me so that when the earthquake hits, your screaming won’t cause me to go deaf.”


Written for Rachel Poli’s Time To Write Sentence Starter prompt.

Time To Write/First Line Friday — The Setting Sun

152DC6B8-37B0-4D98-9D0E-FDE09C543217“Summer died that night,” Amanda said to her son, Clint, who was staring blankly out across the lake as the sun was slowly setting.

“You mean that night two years ago, the last time we were here at the lake house?” Clint asked. “We’re doing okay you and I, aren’t we, Mom?”

“Yeah,” Amanda said. “We are. But I still remember it like it was yesterday. It was a night just like this one.”

“It was a hot, sticky night, I know that,” Clint said. “I still can’t believe she texted you. What kind of shithead would do that?”

“She was never one who could deal with confrontation,” Amanda explained. “In fact, for a successful editor of popular romance novels, she was abysmal when it came to communicating how she was really feeling inside with real people.”

“But to send you a text telling you that you that had to kill Summer, the wildly popular heroine of all of your novels, in your next book,” Clint said, “I mean that’s just cold.”


Written for Rachel Poli’s Time To Write Picture Prompt and for the Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie First Line Friday prompt where the first line is “Summer died that night.”