writing prompt

A Harrowing Tale of Reality

/ wvfurandroot / 2 Comments

Gather round, children.  I have a tale of woe and fright which you should heed.

The world for you now is all peppermint and puppies.  You are given food when hungry, a warm safe bed to sleep in, and activities to grow your sweet young minds.  You are loved unconditionally, and someone is forever taking your photo because you are cute.  You have toys and playmates, play-do and guilt–free chocolate chip cookies.  Yes, guilt-free.  You have not yet met the phenomenon of apologizing for eating that which pleases you. 

Photo by Mark Zamora on Unsplash

Instead of Mother, may I please have another you will grow up and push the cookies away saying, “My doctor says I can’t indulge.”

And doctors – instead of once a year for a physical and the occasional cold, you will have to go once a week and pay the money you earn at a job you have grown to hate for the privilege.  And it is significant money.  No pocket money for the movies or a small toy at the Walmart.  No ice-cold Orange Crush on a hot afternoon.  $65 copay and $200 for the prescription du jour that tastes likes toadstools soaked in gasoline and sprinkled with black licorice.

You have so many doctors that your sick leave at the job you have grown to hate is not sufficient and you have to use your beach days.  Yes. Precious trips to be a kid again at the beach are canceled or curtailed because of the growing collection of doctors in your monster closet.

And that’s not all. The job you have grown to hate does not pay enough to keep up with not just your doctors but your taxes.  Taxes are money you give to the government in exchange for, supposedly, services and protections you receive in return.  These services and protections never seem to serve and protect what you have or need.

The house you live in takes more of your money if you can find people to make the repairs needed.  Often you will live with a drippy faucet that keeps you awake at night because no one will take your money and fix it or you don’t have as much money as they say they need to fix it. You will spend your free time cleaning it, cutting the grass, and washing the windows except when you are at the Home Depot buying the things you need to do that with the dwindling money from the job you have growing to hate.

Instead of kindergarten with soft mats to sit on for story time, you will have to go t that job you are growing to hate.  There instead of a room with colorful carpets and crepe paper flowers on a bulletin board you will be met with a beige cubicle and a sign that says Your Mother Doesn’t Work Here, Wash Your Qwn Dishes. Instead of a smiling teacher who draws happy faces on your worksheets, you will have Brad the Boss who constantly criticizes you and complains about how many times you use the restroom.  Brad is all frowny faces and plans for improvement.

When work is finally done.  You will get in your car just like hundreds of others and fight heavy traffic to get home where you have to rush to prepare dinner and wash dishes and do a load of laundry and watch Wheel of Fortune while your kids frolic in the bathtub.

Yes.  Your kids are having fun.  You are not.  Be a kid.  As long as you can.

The Night Marla Did ,You Know, That Thing

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Marla had been precocious as a child. She had been almost a caricature of the precocious child. Sure in her diction, composed in her movements, confident in her thoughts.  People had wondered at the time what her future held for her.  They predicted great things. President, neurosurgeon, astronaut.  Nothing average for her.

Photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash

But Marla discovered boys at 15 much to the displeasure of her parents.  “Boy crazy,” they said with hopes this would soon pass, but never in Marla’s 15 years had she had a passing fancy.  She grabbed on tight and learned everything she could.

In this instance, she grabbed on tight to Dylan Roberts, 16-year-old heartthrob. She studied Dylan like he was a particularly irregular Spanish verb. Dylan was just as taken with Marla for he’d had a crush on her since first grade when she wore that yellow sweater. To his credit, he had some precociousness under his belt too.  Yes, he was the star quarterback but he was also on track to be the class’s valedictorian just as Marla was on track to be her class’s.

Marla took to wearing smokey eyeshadow and ripped jeans.  Her father was dismayed. Her mother thought to say something but then thought better of it. Marla had always been strong-willed especially if pushed in a corner.  Her grades were still good.

The normality of being a 15-year-old girl in love invigorated Marla to ape the behavior of her peers.  She became increasingly concerned with fashion, cut and permed her hair, and spent hours in the bathroom straightening those expensive curls into soft waves.  She was blossoming into a bombshell and her father took to a nightly scotch.  He was worried.  He knew 16-year-old boys.  He’d been one.

It seemed a fleeting moment but in reality had been several months that their studious, possessed, and driven daughter was the popular girl at school, was glued to her boyfriend every waking moment, and earned her first B which did not distress her. “It was just one of five tests, Mama. I’ll make it up. Besides, advanced biology was a mistake.  Fashion consultants don’t need advanced biology.” 

Marla’s mom started joining her husband for the nightly scotch.

Marla’s father decided to have a talk with her.  Over breakfast, he said, “Marla, I would like for you to be home at 7 tonight.  Your mother and I wish to talk to you.” He didn’t know what he was going to say, but he was going to say it.

“Sure, Pops, I need to talk to you two too,” she said spooning yogurt into her mouth.  Marla’s father studied the rusticity of her outfit – flannel shirt tied at the waist revealing cleavage and midriff with tight jeans and a rope belt.  Marla said it was spirit week at school as if that somehow explained the Daisy Mae costume.

At 7 pm, the family gathered at the kitchen table.  Marla took the lead. 

“Mom, Dad, before you start there’s something I want to discuss. I’m turning 16 next month and I want to host a party here at the house.  One with minimal parental influence.  In the basement.  No drinking, no drugs, no adults.  We just want to be able to be ourselves.

I also made an appointment with Dr. Clark. Dylan and I have talked. It’s time I was on birth control.

Marla’s father stood up and retrieved the decanter of scotch and two glasses.

Her mother rushed to the bathroom to throw up.

This became known as “The Night Marla Did, You Know, That Thing.”

Peas and Broccoli

/ wvfurandroot / 2 Comments

My name is Gus.  Gregory named me.  Gus.  No last name.  Gregory is only 3. He’s not up to speed on the concept of last names.

I’m a superhero accountant and Cheez-Its bring out my powers. I wear them in a pouch around my neck. I can climb like Spiderman, but I can also fly.  I am often blamed for not eating the mushrooms when they’re served.  Gregory does not like mushrooms. His parents insist he try them each time, but he doesn’t have to finish them. Gregory so hates mushrooms that even a taste makes him shudder. He tells his mom and dad that I will just spit them out. I wouldn’t. That’s bad table manners. So, Gregory spits them out.  Well spits it out. He will find the smallest one put it in his mouth with a grimace, wretch, and then spit it out.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

His parents think he is overreacting. He is not. Gregory simply cannot abide the texture. 

Gregory likes Miss Rachel on YouTube and his life-sized Cody doll. Cody is very soft and squishy.  Apropos of nothing, Gregory will holler, “Peas and broccoli” and then collapse into peals of giggles. It always makes his parents laugh. Me too. 

Gregory loves me.

I do not make his parents laugh. They think I’ve gone on too long.  They are concerned.

I think it’s unfair that they try to shoo me.  I’ve done nothing wrong. I am Gregory’s friend. His best friend. His only friend. Maybe when he starts preschool or daycare he will be done with me, who knows.  I hope not. He is my best friend too. 

During nap time, we whisper to one another in our secret language.  This really concerns his mom and dad.  It’s clear that it’s a secret language and it’s clear that we use it to keep the adults out.

Even Grandma isn’t allowed to know the secret language either and he tells Grandma everything.  Even about me. She knows there is a language, but Gregory will not translate for her.

“Peas and broccoli” in the secret language is a phrase of complete exasperation. Oh for peas and broccoli. You get the idea.

But when I’m not around, Gregory doesn’t use the secret language.  At those times, the phrase is just nonsense.

I love Gregory, but he will soon be done with me.  I have served my purpose.  I am similar to his dad, but I always have time for Gregory.  No household tasks or homework to interrupt our time together. His mother is just a lost cause.  She is so stressed.  Trying to keep the home neat and orderly. Trying to get a promotion at work.

Perhaps they are right to be concerned.  They are blowing it. There is only this one time that Gregory will be three. Will believe in me and my ability to climb skyscrapers or fly from one to another. Will make me spit out mushrooms and holler Peas and Broccoli.

Brian

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Photo by Claudio Schwarz on Unsplash

Donna unplugged the modem, counted to 60 AGAIN, plugged it back in and watched the light.  Blue, blue, red, blue.

“Damn it.”  She looked at the clock.  17 minutes.  They had 17 minutes to get her internet up and running.  She’d called the company three times already.  It was out statewide.  She was just a cog in the wheel. 

She opened the laptop’s camera and checked her makeup again.  The lighting in the family room was not optimal, but that’s where the laptop lived and besides the background was more interesting than any other spot in her house.

There had been a hundred messages back and forth.  Five phone calls.  Now they had graduated to Zoom.  Brian wanted to meet in person, but Donna was cautious.  Overly so her friends said.  She had no reason to think he was anything other than what he said, but she’d heard too many horror stories to relax.  But oh did he feel perfect. 

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