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Posts Tagged ‘drabbles’

Under the Bed: Wheels

30 Nov

Wheels were a dangerous thing.

Wheels made you exciting. A toy like Tommy, who gets revved backwards until he makes that satisfying clicking noise and then zooms the length of the kitchen, was often the star of the afternoon.

But wheels were dangerous.

Sometimes, while you are zipping, the child gets distracted. If you are lucky, he’ll go searching for you. If you aren’t, if it was a call to dinner, you could be lost for days.

And if you are really unlucky, like fast-moving Tommy, you can get yourself wedged so far under the bed that you’ll never be found.

 

Darwin’s Drabbles: Breakfast

21 Nov

“I don’t want you to let Reverend Jacobs’ sermon bother you too much, okay?”

Paula put down her biscuit. She loved her husband, but she hated starting her day like this.

“What is he going to say?”

“That I’m the devil.” He looked at his plate and pushed his eggs around. “And that anyone who ‘has congress with the beast’ is going to burn in hell.”

“Oh, Baby. You know I don’t believe that.” She plastered on a familiar smile. The one that said “I’m not afraid of you” even though she was.

“I know.”

He knew more than she suspected.

 

Breakfast: Home

19 Nov

Tuesday afternoon is bingo. Wednesday they serve meatloaf for dinner. Friday morning she has a hair-setting appointment. Her week has many things to look forward to, but Sunday is her favorite.

On Sunday her favorite son comes and takes her to brunch at The Stuffed Turkey, a local restaurant with a special weekend brunch menu. He talks about his job and her grandchildren and listens while she prattles on about the latest gossip in her community. He drinks coffee and she sips a mimosa, but she’s transported back across the years to his childhood and she feels anything is still possible.

 

Breakfast: Ritual

18 Nov

(Double drabble because I slept yesterday instead of writing. It happens.)

He smacked the alarm clock into silence without opening his eyes. He tossed back the covers and groped for the discarded pair of jeans crumpled next to the bed. He stretched, scratched, and slipped on the pants. His eyes were no wider or more frequently opened than absolutely necessary.

He shuffled into his kitchen and filled the coffee pot with water. It splashed on the counter as he filled the reservoir. Grounds scattered as he tossed the poorly leveled scoops into the filter. He’d clean up later. He growled as he forced the filter back onto its tracks. He pushed the “Brew” button. One breath. Two. The smell of fresh coffee and the anticipation of caffeine granted him the ability to keep his eyes half-open.

He felt around in the cabinet above the pot. Finding nothing he turned to the sink and cursed. He inspected three cups lining the sink and rinsed it out until it looked relatively clean. He turned back to the pot and waited. His eyes slipped shut and he wavered on his feet.

The coffee maker beeped as it finished. With the barest hint of a smile he pulled the pot off the burner and poured breakfast.

 

Breakfast: Early Bird Special

16 Nov

Stu knew before the waitress set the plate down that he was about to experience the best breakfast of his entire life.

“Can you even call it breakfast if you haven’t gone to bed yet?”

“Dude. It doesn’t matter. If it’s served between 5 and 11am, it’s breakfast. It’s like, a law or something.”

“Shut up. There’s no laws about food. Idiot.”

He looked across the booth at his bandmates. This was it. This wasn’t the moment where everything changed. That had happened two hours ago. This was the first moment after it where they calmed the fuck down and enjoyed it.

 
 

Breakfast: Incompatibility

15 Nov

“How do you like your eggs?” he asked as she emerged fully dressed from his bedroom.

“Oh.” She looked around the tiny apartment. It had looked so much cleaner last night. “I don’t eat eggs. I’m a vegetarian.”

“Ah.” He slid the pan off the stove. “Guess you won’t want the bacon, either.”

She wrinkled her nose and he tossed it into the trash.

“Toast and jam?” she asked.

“Gluten allergy.” He shook his head.

“Wow.” She spotted her purse near the door.

“Yeah.”

“Listen, I’ve got a …thing.”

“Right… I’ll call you. We can get coffee or something.”

“Sure.”

 
 

Darwin’s Drabbles: Primary Colors

14 Nov

The auras gave him headaches.

At first he thought they were tricks of light, as if the person had walked in front of a colored light bulb. As the ability grew, he realized those first impressions where the brightest. Within weeks everyone was glowing. Red, blue, yellow, brown. Some were murky swirls of colors, others solid floodlights. Why could he see it? What did the colors mean?

Reverend Jacobs said he’d been blessed by the Holy Spirit or was possessed by one of Satan’s agents and suggested Darwin pray for an answer.

Darwin prayed to be free of whatever this was.

 

Primary Colors: LiveStrong

13 Nov

There were two things he never took off without a very good reason. The first was the wedding ring that had to be replaced after falling into a river on his honeymoon. The other was a yellow band of rubber imprinted with a simple challenge. It had been a fad for some, but for him it was a call to action. After nearly 10 years of marriage, he could hardly feel the weight of the ring. The band would go unnoticed for weeks and then it would get snagged on a shirt and remind him.

Cancer sucks. Also, get on your bike.

inspired by one of Ryan’s recent tweets.

 

Primary Colors: Message In a Bottle

11 Nov

She opens the box and studies the contents. She skims the instructions.

So much of her life is out of her hands. Her useless advisor at grad school. The mortgage on the house she won’t be able to sell for years. Her grandfather’s failing heart. Her mothers cancer.

She slips on the gloves. She pours the smaller bottle into the larger and replaces the cap. She shakes and the liquids turn to a single, purpling muck. She sets down the bottle and takes one last look at her hair.

It’s a small thing to have power over, but it helps.

 

Primary Colors: Over Easy?

10 Nov

The butter sizzles in the pan. The egg is cracked and spreads in the pan, translucent white bubbling and turning opaque. She slides the spatula under the egg and lifts. The egg wobbles and threatens to slip. She bites her lip and flips the egg. She opens her eyes and sighs as she sees the yolk mix with the setting white. It turns pale yellow as it hardens.

She slides the wrecked egg onto the waiting pile of losses. She cuts off a fresh pad of butter and returns the pan to the stove. She reaches into the nearly-empty egg carton.