Prompt #6
And then, one day....
Good morning, lovely people. And thanks for hopping aboard my little prompt train! I hope my newer subscribers will take a moment to look through the comments sections of prior posts. There you’ll find a lovely community of writers launching in, unafraid. That’s because we are here to support one another. And because we have all agreed that what we are posting in these threads are not polished gems, but simply responses to the prompts. This is not the place for perfection. It’s the place to have fun, try new things, and have no worries about any of it. (Although, I gotta say—some of what’s been posted here comes pretty close to perfection!)
On another note: Several of you have seen fit to become paid subscribers and I want to take a moment to thank you sincerely for your kind support. I’m amazed and grateful that anyone would pay for content that is offered for free. Makes my little heart very happy. Big love to all of my subscribers, paid or free—I’m just happy you all are here. xo
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And here we go with another Monday prompt—
I only know one joke. And it’s a terrible joke. But for some reason, while I have immediately forgotten every joke anyone has ever told me, this one has managed to stay stuck in my brain. It’s literally the only joke I know.
The joke goes like this:
There was a little boy who didn’t talk. At first, his parents didn’t worry much. They figured some kids are just slower at things than others. The father, for instance, didn’t start to walk until he was nearly two! But look at him now—you’d never know he’d started life out so far behind his peers. So, the parents figured, when our son is ready, he’ll talk. (You’ve heard this one before, right?) The years went by, and still the boy did not talk. He turned four. Nada. Then he was five. Not a word. Then, six. Nothing. And still his parents waited, although, truth be known, they were beginning to get a little bit freaked out. Then, one day, the boy’s mother served her son a nice scoop of fresh green peas. She piled them high on his plate and then waited for him to taste one. The little boy picked up a pea, looked at it, put it in his mouth, rolled it around for a moment, and then, with great rigor, spit it out. “Dear God!” the little boy shouted. “What are trying to do, poison me?” The mother looked at her son in shock, and then at her husband who was also looking at the boy in shock. “You spoke!” the mother shouted. “You finally spoke!” The father, near tears, grabbed his son’s hands and, with a shaky voice said, “My son! We have waited so long. Tell me. Why did you finally decide to speak?” The son, nonplussed, shrugged his shoulders and then looked at the big lugs who were his parents. Did they know nothing at all? “Well,” he said, suddenly a master of fluency. “Up until now, everything was fine.”
And that’s the joke. Ba-dum-bum. (I told you it was terrible.)
But there are a few things to be learned from this joke. The main one—and this is related to this week’s prompt—is that in a story, something’s gotta happen, and that “something” that happens is out of the ordinary.
I like to think of it this way: A person is living their life. Days come and go, one pretty much the same as the next. And then, ONE DAY…. something happens. If you keep the words “one day” in your brain, you’ll find them popping up all the time in stories that you read. As soon as we read “one day,” we know the ride has begun.
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Today’s prompt is this:
We are not writing jokes this week. Instead, the prompt is to write a short story where everything is fine—until it’s not. Unlike the joke, “the moment when things were no longer fine” should come at the start of your story, not the end.
If you want, you can start your story with the words: “Everything was fine until……” This sort of story beginning means you’ll start in the thick of the action, a device you’ve probably heard of, often called beginning “in medias res.” So, launch in—take us right out of the ordinary and straight into the moment when something went haywire.
Or you can start your story with a quick description of normal days before writing “And then, one day….” And launching in from there.
Your choice.
Of course, if you must write a joke, I won’t stop you.
See you next Monday!
Everything was fine enough until the rains came, and not just any rain but a massive downpour. In moments, the lawn was a wading pool, the guests soaked. Someone laughed and someone else yelled “Rain is good luck!” and several people made a run for the covered porch, but we stayed where we were, in front of the judge, while he kept speaking, faster now, and saying words I couldn’t hear. I saw my mother grasping my father’s arm as he led her toward the house. In the distance, the clap of thunder. My almost-husband said “I do,” and I said “yeah, me, too,” and then we ran inside, the judge at our heels. The caterers were doing their best to wrestle the food inside, and a few of the younger guests were carrying tables into the garage. I grabbed a bottle of wine, locked myself in a bedroom and cried. Later, someone said I’d been the perfect bride, so emotional, crying with happiness. But inside, I was hoping perhaps I’d dodged a bullet. I hadn’t said “I do.” So I wasn’t married, not really, was I?
A day like any other day, in that lovely, warm, vibrant Tulsa spring, the world in bloom, the birds frolicking in the pecan limbs, their avian stomachs bursting with worms and bugs, the scattered threads of my life finally weaving more tightly around one another. The woman in the background had broken through my iron walls and taken center stage. “Should we move in together?” I asked her. “No!” she replied, laughing. “Why yokes and chains? ‘Love flowers best in openness and freedom,’ Ed Abbey says. So would we.” I nodded and acquiesced, grateful and enlightened. Susan was like no one else, in all the ways that mattered.
We parted ways; I went to work. Another busy June night. Halfway through my shift I was told I had a phone call.
“Make it quick,” my boss said.
“Hello?”
“Eric? This is Dionne. I’m sorry to bother you at work, but I have bad news.”
As she spoke, my brain split into a thousand different versions of myself. I felt lightheaded, as the blood drained from my face. I thought I might hit the floor.
“Dionne,” I managed to say, “please don’t be telling me this.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Do me a favor. Clock out, but don’t go anywhere. I’m on my way to get you. You can’t be alone, okay?You’ll wait for me to show up, right?”
“All right. I’ll be here. Outside, on the bench.” I replaced the phone in its cradle, a gesture that took five thousand years. The lights, the hubbub, the music—blues, of course—swirled around me. I took a step, and grabbed the counter.
“You ok?”my boss asked.
“I have to go,” I said.
“What? In the middle of a busy Thursday night?” He saw my face. “Okay, okay, give Marci your checks. Take all the time you need, ok?”
I nodded. It took ten thousand years to gather my things and make it through the door into the evening filled with birdsong, warmth, laughter, and a million people who had no idea how lucky they were for this one moment in time.