Three Weeks, Nine Prompts

Right.

[Stretches her arms forward, cracks her knuckles and shakes out her hands]

Three weeks behind on nine prompts: Treat him like a sister; In case of fire; Getting out of hand; Do the authorities know you’re here?; As you slept; What became of forever?; Los pobrecitos; The present was poorly wrapped; Bottle of emotions.

[Sighs] Let’s see what can be done with all that. [Sighs again]

[Stares out the window for 10 minutes. Turns on the TV, channel surfs, turns off the TV. Gets up and pours a glass of wine. Throws a proverbial dart at the prompts to determine which one goes first]


What became of forever? Seriously, when did, “I have all the time in the world,” become, “No time like the present, for there is no knowing what tomorrow will bring”? The problem is, like a poorly wrapped gift, the present is not an enticing offer. Unless you are talking about getting some tedious chores done. No. The sort of fertile ground needed for the seeds of tremendous things in life to grow is not here, not now. Maybe I’ll just float along until after elections next year. See how I’m feeling after that.

See, the thing is, I’m just a bottle of emotions these days. God forbid, should someone shake me and loose the lid? I’ll spew all over. I’m just sayin’, in case of fire, do not, under any circumstances, break the glass. Just let me burn.

Take last weekend. We gathered at my sister’s for a family wedding; her eldest, finally past the failure-to-launch phase with a decent job and a nice girl. But, because my nephew has always had the lion’s share of his parent’s attention—desperate as they were to get him grown, out of the house and on his own two feet—there is an underlying resentment about attending the little pobrecito’s wedding. If it were up to everyone else, they’d just assume he and she elope so they can avoid yet one more family event where he is the center of attention. He’s a lot like my sister, his mother, that way. The two of them. Sucking the air out of whatever room they walk into.

Anyway, there I was at my sister’s, nerves maxed to the hilt after a day of being forced to pay attention to only them while the rest of the famn-damily went on bickering, bitching, yelling, slamming doors and giving each other the silent treatment. Wide awake at 2:30 in the morning while everyone else managed to have finally passed out drunk. All I wanted to do was bolt. Just run. Out the door, down the street, down the next street, and the next. Just keep running until I couldn’t run anymore. Or, the police stopped me (Ma’am, we received a report of a woman in her nightgown running in bare feet down one street and another. Sorry, but we’re going to have to bring you in for making an ass of yourself).

This whole hysterical state of mind is getting out of hand! I have to pull my shit together and just, whatever. Let the rest roll off my back, as they say. The family will always be the family. The job will always be the job. Nothing is perfect.

And, so, here I am. A lovely, sunny spring evening. I guess it’s true. There really isn’t anything like the present, no matter how it shows up.


Disclaimer: bits of “nonfiction,” to be sure, but this is entirely a fictional piece!

3 thoughts on “Three Weeks, Nine Prompts

  1. I like the idea of you getting arrested for running up and down the streets in your nightgown. Could happen, ya know…
    I’m impressed by the tale you wove. All those unrelated prompts into one short piece of fiction…
    Gracias

    Like

    1. I didn’t think it was possible. But, ya know, each and every time I think it can’t be done, I am happily surprised how possible it actually is. Sorry I’ve been absent lately, but I promise it’s not because I was incarcerated for insanity in a nightgown.

      Liked by 1 person

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