This is on the twenty-eighth floor of the Markham building downtown, famous for the bathroom stall windows with their views of the Olympics, the islands, and the vast blue of Puget Sound. But the mother of the bride-to-be, she’s not looking out the window. In fact, it seems she never made it into a stall at all as there is a small splash of vomit next to her face. I pray she does not get vomit in her hair and in that moment she does. The sisters—oh, those nasty sisters—they are laughing, and I’m not sure what to do. If her own daughters aren’t going to help her off the floor, is it my place to do so? They are hysterical with laughter, mind you. Well, I could have told you we were headed someplace bad (though I never imagined this particular scenario) when the comments began over the first course. (Rehearsal dinner.) The mother of the bride said there was something she needed to say, and then there was the shouting, and then the mother ran out of the room and the drunken sisters followed. And finally, well, it seemed someone should go see what was going on and that someone turned out to be me.
“Sorry” I said to her, slightly shoving her face away from the vomit and throwing down a few entirely ineffectual paper towels.
The odor—horrible.
“What should we do?” I said to the laughing sisters, which only made them laugh harder, which momentarily covered the sound of the mother’s ugly weeping. There are scenes you remember the rest of your life and I knew in that moment I was in the middle of one.
Perhaps my date (groom’s brother) was a nice enough guy, I’ll never know. I peeked in a stall to see the famous view—yes, it’s true, the mountains looked fabulous, the sun was just then beginning to set—walked out of the bathroom and headed for the elevator. Wedding went off, I was told later. But then—cocaine, gambling, another woman—well, turns out the mother of the bride was right after all.
The bride's not drunk. The mother of the bride is. (I guess I need to do some editing to make it more clear.) The mother of the bride is on the bathroom floor, sick from drinking too much, along with two sisters of the bride. The bride is in the other room, having dinner.
No need to even, for so much as a passing nanosecond, consider editing Mary. Marvellous. Your piece that is, but even more so your switch to posting 'Something Different', which I for one think is quite the masterstroke.
Likely off the page, me that is, for a while. Further surgery on my troublesome left eye is upcoming early next week and, until 'Scrubs' notes on what I can and should not be doing post operatively are advised to me, I know better than to assume let alone presume.
Be seein' y'all 😎, hopefully sooner rather than later.
The chickens of Moscow shit just like any other chickens of this world. It’s amazing how a bird originating in the sub tropics of Indonesia winds up in the icy streets of Moscow and why they continue to live there like the ancient dinosaurs they are never comfortable in the snow.
The chickens in Hawaii wonder the streets and peck at your toes when you drink your coffee at the Aloha Press. Always begging for crumbs of your cinnamon roll.
I don’t particularly like or dislike chickens, it’s just the poop on the deck next to my chair on my sandals that causes my distress. Chickens don’t expel liquid pee; the pee ejects with the poop –– which is the dark color, and the pee is the white content. Also, after observing chickens I don’t believe they can see directly in front of their beak. Note how they turn their head to the side to peer at you. That’s probably why they cross the road.
Furthermore, the chickens of Moscow are like any other chicken of the world and have the ability to peer one eye into the sky in search of an incoming hawk and the other eye to the ground to search for a beguiling city ant on his way home from road construction.
Куры Москвы - I'm sure that this is a Chekhov story that remains out there, in the great somewhere, to be discovered in an old ottoman, long stood shaded, backed up to the clapperboard house wall on the porch of a dacha where The Greatest Literally Consumptive Writer of Them All was wont to dash of a story, each day of his stays.
Clara stared at Phil, hunched over his laptop, getting muffin crumbs on the keyboard. He didn’t seem to care. She did. And just what was he prattling on about? “Who’s ‘Bebby’?”
“Huh”? At least Phil was confirming that he heard her, that’s a start.
“’Bebby’. Who, or what, is ‘Bebby’?”
“It’s Debby, not Bebby, Clara. According to the Daily Mail she’s slamming into Florida.”
“What the hell does that even mean, Phil. And why are you reading that trash paper?”
“I think Debby is a hurricane. And she’s slamming into Florida.” Phil absentmindedly picked at his nose, inspected the result, smearing it on his napkin.
“Shit, Phil, that’s so gross, stop picking your nose at the table.”
“Huh?”
“Your nose. Stop picking your nose at the table. Save that for when you’re driving, then I won’t have to see it at least.”
Phil was still immersed in the Daily Mail’s coverage of extreme American weather. He started to giggle, but managed to speak between giggles. “Get this quote, ‘When the water rises, when you have streets that are flooded, that’s hazardous.’ You know who said this? I mean, you just have to guess who in Florida has such brilliance.”
“I don’t feel like games, Phil.”
“Aww, come on, guess, pretty pretty please.” Phil was using his baby voice. Clara hated that.
“OK, Phil, fuck it. Did DeSantis say that?”
Phil was crestfallen. Made a sad face. “Well, yes, it was him. I just thought it was funny.”
Clara shook her head, got up from the kitchen table and went to the fridge to get more milk for her coffee.
Clara was happy to see Bill was still there. “Hi, Bill, could you hand me that milk carton on the shelf?”
“Hi Clara, great to see you. I heard your convo with Phil. You know, the offer is still open. You can join us in here at any time. There’s only 30 of us in here now, I’m sure there’s room for one more.” Bill smiled as he handed Clara the milk carton.
Clara smiled back. She had been giving Bill’s offer a lot of thought lately, but hadn’t decided to take the plunge yet. Bill made it sound so appealing, living with 30 miniature polar bears in a near-perfect climate-controlled environment. And they all seemed so friendly. And smart. Certainly better conversationalists than Phil. But no, not yet. Maybe after breakfast.
Oh, you got me! Thinking Clara and Phil are gonna fight over the bill only to find 30 mini polar bears in the fridge. Thanks for the laugh this morning, Mark. (No picking your nose while driving! Gross!)
Our sociology professor hasn’t shown up to class for a full week now. On Monday everyone left after waiting 20 minutes. On Wednesday half the class was absent too. By Friday there were only eight of us, the die-hard curious. Pamela lodged a complaint with the department head. She wants to drop and get a refund for the class. Devin thinks it’s part of an experiment to observe and examine our collective response and social behaviors with regard to our missing professor. And me? Why do I keep showing up? Because I know where Professor Coe is and my attendance is a necessary part of my alibi.
It was my father's given responsibility, following his early retirement from the army due to injury, to tally the wild chickens of Moscow and to account for their whereabouts in his weekly reports. Officially, his job was to ensure that none of the birds living within the Garden Ring were eaten by the population who were starving in order to prove some laboured political point to the West, where there was always plenty of chicken to go round, along with hamburgers and other meats.
When a bird was missing my father would turn detective. He would wander the streets in the company of a shaggy black dog who would pad alongside in the snow with its head bowed and emit a piteous strangled howl whenever it smelled cooked poultry.
It was common for families who found a dead chicken to task their children with presenting it to my father. They feared they would be suspected of killing it. Perhaps secretly they hoped they would be allowed to keep it for themselves. The dead chickens were dispatched by my father to The Ministry for Agriculture and Food where they were cycled through five separate departments until they had amassed the required paperwork.
My father unfortunately lived to see the fall of the old Soviet order. Within a week all of the wild chickens in Moscow had been slaughtered and eaten. The dog, with no kennel to return to, remained in his ownership. During that first week it howled almost continuously in response to the smell of roast chicken emanating from the apartment blocks.
There have been attempts to reintroduce populations of the birds to the city but they are always immediately stolen for food. They are one of the few populations to have benefited from living in a police state. We will have to wait for the return of Communism to see them come home to roost.
Man steps up to the counter at a pet store. He sets down a picnic ice chest.
Clerk: How can I help you?
Man: I’d like to return the Arctic Set. I bought it for my daughter a few weeks ago. We should still be under warranty.
Clerk: What date?
Man: The 20th, not any earlier.
Clerk: So, what’s the problem?
Man: It’s been a nightmare. They’ve taken over the refrigerator.
Clerk: It’s a transition. Did you put up the nighttime sky? Usually that settles them.
Man: With the pin pricks in the paper? Yes. I hung it from over the fridge light. North Star to the door.
Clerk: How many did you defrost?
Man: We defrosted the little polar bear first. He was immediately aggressive. He thought I was the one that froze him. Then we built the arctic world just like it said in the instructions. Large flat ice floating freely in a baking dish away from the back wall. Hang the starlit sky from 3pm to 11am. During the day put gauze over the refrigerator light to make a winter sun.
Clerk: The ice definitely floated on top of the water so they could get at the anchovies?
Man: Yes.
Clerk: Just one anchovy a day?
Man: Yes.
Clerk: You only defrosted out the one polar bear?
Man: Well, no. My daughter thought the first bear was lonely, so she defrosted most of the others without asking. All thirty of them. One of the babies got into the milk carton. My wife is furious.
Clerk: I mean it happens. Did you defrost the Inuits?
Man: Briefly.
Clerk: I may have to speak to my manager if you defrosted the Inuits.
Man: Well, that’s outrageous. I’ve got thirty polar bears in this ice chest that took over my refrigerator.
Clerk: I believe you. And you planted the cotton grass in the stick of butter?
Clerk: Yes. Everything like it said.
Clerk (indicating the ice chest): May I?
Man nods.
Clerk raises a miniature polar bear on his finger. The polar bear stands up on its rear legs and paws the air fiercely. It has a yawning red mouth. You can just barely hear it peep.
Man: Actually, my daughter defrosted a puffin, too, but we can’t find it. Everything else is still in there on ice.
Clerk: Alright. I’ll take them back. Mary will take care of you.
Thank you, Danielle. I thought I got lucky early on in the imagination front. Sometimes I can stare at this kind of thing for hours. What helped me was that I had like 10 other things I was supposed to be doing. So a huge distraction was just the ticket.
Thank you! The prompt was fantastic. Who couldn't like polar bears in the fridge? (Well, apparently my guy.) I'm going to tweak it a bit and post it on my site next week.
If you now Monty Python, you might recognize the Dead Parrot sketch in here. (A guy is trying to return a parrot to the store that the store clerk insists isn't dead.) The absurdity of the situation is wonderful. For me the underlying fun was the miracle of having these creatures in your freezer and not even seeing it.
The reception was being held in the House with the Toilet on its Roof. You know the one–with the pair of legs in garish orange tights and stilettos hanging out of the toilet bowl. Meghan had suggested a pair of jeans with a cool pair of boots. No one listened to Meghan. This was her final gig as bartender for Chickens of Moscow Catering.
It had been quite a day. When her sociology professor hadn’t shown up for class in a week, she was appointed to check on him. Found him. Dead. Face down on his desk in the middle of researching the impact of social media on physical health. HIs Facebook page had still been open to “Update.” The overly-officious police inspector finally let her leave in time to grab a quick burger and fries at the McDonalds drive through. It was closed due to “Sever Bee Allgergies.
”At least they could have spelled it right,” she thought as she accelerated out of the lot.
She was late. The bride and groom had not arrived yet. No one knew where they were. So far, the restive guests had emptied the keg and drank all but one bottle of the wine. They were dangerously low on stronger spirits.The door opened and a harried looking mother pushed her young daughter inside. The little girl screamed. “This isn’t a birthday party!”
“Ma’am? Ma’am!” Meghan yelled, running for the door. “You want the rec center next door!” Meghan pointed the way. Three belligerent attendees leaned on the bar demanding more liquid refreshments.
“I suggest you follow that woman to the rec center next door.” Meghan replied. “There is a vending machine in the basement.” She shrugged. At least they might find some Mountain Dew. She turned and barely caught a balding guy in a too tight suit as he wrenched open the refrigerator door. She shoved him aside and slammed the door shut.
“You’ll lose a couple of fingers!” she bellowed. “There are 30 tiny polar bears living in there!”
She held up one bandaged hand, blood seeping through the gauze she had hurriedly wound around it 30 minutes ago.
She noticed a woman slumped on the floor and ran over to her. “Ma’am? Are you all right?”
“I’m Gladysssss…ssss.” she hiccupped.
“Mother of the bride,” Too-tight suit explained. “Drinking while playing horses with her niece.”
I just decided to use them all. I wrote one that got long and it will be part of the book--the day that gets worse and worse and then Gladys. So I made this one the day that gets worse and worse with all the other prompts thrown in.
And I saw the prompt you pulled these from and saved a few myself last week. Great fun!
Oooh... so neat, if I can't pick one, why, what else I pick'em all.
FYI Meghan wasn't in the least arsed about not being listened to because her next shift was booked, signed and sealed, as a Go-to-Girl at Wild Turkeys of Moscow.
The sociology professor hasn’t shown up to class for a full week now. It’s a real shame; out of all my subjects I was most looking forward to learning about society—Conflict Theory, Outgroup Homogeneity, Isolationism. Instead we’ve learnt lickety split! I should’ve taken chemistry instead.
Wednesday
Thomas says we need a new teacher, and I totally agree. We’re paying serious dosh for this course and we need to do something about it. I’ve begun to fantasise about this illusive professor. In my mind he has a villainous moustache and monobrow and through security cameras looks on us with with a constant sneer.
Thursday
My neck crick is worsening. Sleeping in a lecture hall chair hurts but what can I do when the jock boys have claimed the floor? They hoard the food when it clunks down the chute in the ceiling; they’re bigger, they say, and require more sustaince. Might is right, apparently.
Last night was cold. Thomas and I huddled into each other for warmth. He whispered we need to do something about these jocks, and I whispered my concurrence—but we’re both weedy, bookish types.
Friday
We’ve been using the cold as a guise for our plotting, cuddling into those most physically feeble to whisper our plan. I think we’ve formed a strong resistance. On our side: Cassandra, whose been screwing a jock in the corner every night. So tomorrow we act. Thom is nervous, but I’ve reassured him it must succeed for there is no other option.
Saturday
Cassandra’s a snake, an informant, went whispering our whispers to the jocks. We got our first lecture today—not the new teacher I wanted—the beefiest jock took to the lectern and roared, ‘Who’s ya leader?!’ He threatened to reduce our rations. ‘Who’s ya leader?!’ He put a red-haired kid in a headlock.‘ Who’s ya leader?!’ Thomas came forth. They strung Thom up naked in front of the chalkboard and graffitied insults around him in a cloud.
Three Months Later
Today, while I gave one of the beef-heads a foot massage, the sociology professor unlocked the door. She’s tall, wears cat-eye specs and definitely does not have a villainous moustache. She adjusted the position of the lecturn’s mic and asked, ‘This semester, what did we learn?’ I decided to switch degrees after that—to chemistry—it’ll be better career-wise, financially, and I think for my sanity and soul.
Great ending! Really such a good and creepy little story. (I don't know where you live and maybe it means something different there, but here in the U.S. lickety-split means "speedy.")
I look up. "How can a refrigerator have an issue?"
Becky stops, stiffens, looks at me. Hard. "Are we going to have one of your philosophical debates over what is a simple practical issue?"
"So you mean this is simple and practical?"
"Of course that's what I mean! Obviously!"
I look down at my book again. "Have you checked the power is on?"
"Have I what?"
"Checked the power is on."
For an instant, she is speechless. I know I'm sailing very close to the wind, but I really don't want to spend hours messing with a fussy old fridge. "You know, honey, the simplest things are often the ones we forget."
She doesn't like being called honey. And she hates mansplaining. I don't know why I do it. Perversity, most likely.
"Listen up, Mr Man-About-The-House-My-Ass," she says with a more than adequate dose of venom. "The refrigerator is Not. Working. Correctly. And your job is, you fix it!"
I sigh and close my book. Wasn't much good, anyway. "OK, doc," I say. "What are the symptoms?"
"I put stuff in there, and it disappears."
"What kind of stuff?"
She succeeds in catching my eye. I wish she wouldn't do that. "That question is so stupid I don't know how even you could come up with it," she says. "I mean, what would YOU put in the fridge?"
I think about it. "Beer?"
She takes a deep breath, then does nothing with it. "No beer," she says quietly.
"I put a six-pack in this morning."
"There is no beer. No milk, no cheese, no butter, no eggs, no yogurt, no <brand name omitted>. That fridge is empty."
If I really wanted to, I could win this one, but my curiosity was piqued. I got to my feet. "Probably a thief," I mumbled, but I went through to the kitchen.
The power was on (first thing I looked at). The light came on when I opened the door. There was nothing in there. She was right. The cupboard was bare.
"We had a thief!" I called.
"How did they walk past you to get into the kitchen?" she called back.
I said nothing.
"And why didn't they take my purse which is right there on the counter?"
I said nothing.
I made some rummaging and repair noises.
Then I went back out. "You're not going to believe this," I said. "But... There are thirty tiny polar bears living in the refrigerator."
hahahaha! I don't know why i laughed so hard a the end when i KNEW it was coming, but it was so funny anyway! Thanks for playing along today. Super fun little story.
It's a shaggy dog story. Distract attention during a long build-up, then drop the punchline just when everyone is thinking "It's got to come soon." At least, that's the theory.
[The vending machine in the basement of the rec center]
Maryann said you could get cigarettes from the vending machine. We left the Girl Scout meeting halfway through the butterfly lesson, saying we were going to the bathroom, and now here we were traipsing through cold, winding basement corridors, our shoes clacking on the dirty linoleum floors.
“I think we’re lost.”
“It’s got to be here somewhere,” Maryann said.
I jingled the change in my pocket. I didn’t think I had enough for a pack of cigarettes. I wasn’t even sure how much they cost. I had never even tried smoking a cigarette.
“Let’s go back,” I said, though at this point I wasn’t sure how to get back.
“Oh, here, I found it,” Maryann said, turning yet another corner.
The vending machine was grimy and brown, like everything else in the basement. It had eight knobs and a shelf below them to catch what you bought. But what would you buy? All of the eight chutes held identical brown, unmarked paper boxes.
“They’re cigarette boxes,” Maryann said confidently.
“Candy boxes,” I said, less confidently.
I tried twisting one of the knobs. The box above it bounced but didn’t fall.
Maryann pushed a quarter into the slot at the top, and I twisted the knob again. This time, a box fell onto the shelf.
She grabbed it and opened the top. “You see? Cigarettes.”
“No….” I pulled one of the white cylinders out of the box. We rolled it between our fingers, sniffed it, tasted it. “Chalk.”
“Now what?” I asked. But Maryann was already writing. I watched her scribble EVELYN O. WAS HERE with chalk on the brown wall. Evelyn O. was the Girl Scout we most detested.
I shook the box, spilling the other pieces of chalk into my hand. At the bottom was a folded piece of paper. I took it out, unfolded it, and replaced the chalk. Drawn on the paper was what looked like a maze, with an “X” somewhere near the middle.
Maryann looked over my shoulder. “It’s a map! Maybe there’s a treasure chest at the X.”
I turned the paper around a few times. “I think the X is where we are now.”
“Then which way do we go?”
I tried to match up the drawing with what I could remember of the corridors we’d walked through.
Number 8: The vending machine is in the basement of the rec center. Wrote this on my quick break from work, it was fun, thank you!!!!!
It was true that Tom was the first young man the rec center had hired in a while, and Sheila began to fancy him. Not at first, mostly because of his teeth, his bad haircut, and his saggy jeans. Not her type usually, but he began to pop up in Sheila’s dreams the past few weeks, and she found herself dressing to please him, heels, short skirts and skorts, fake lashes, she’d even whitened her teeth at the dental office. After she hooked him, she’d work on his whole sad look. He needed a make-over, that’s all.
She felt confident because there were only two other women at the rec center, plain Deena with her no make-up, frizzy hair, Birkenstocks without a pedicure (or those awful slide-ons that looked like baked potato feet). Sheila noticed Deena had Rosacea. Sheesh, get a facial already, she thought to herself. There was no competition there. Deena was a mess. The “before” picture in a beauty ad.
The other woman, Marta, was a happily married grandmother, so no worries there. Sheila, Tom, and Deena were still in their early twenties.
Sheila looked all over for Tom, and he was nowhere to be found, not at the front desk, not cleaning the bathrooms. She liked to find situations where she could stand close and chat him up, let her Shalimar perfume do it’s magic. She wondered if he’d gone down to the bowels of the rec center, down the long staircase where the vending machines were. Shit. I’ll have to take my shoes off. I’ll break my neck in these.
Sheila stood at the top of the staircase, her shoes in her hands, and made her way down the stairs. It was awfully quiet down there. When she got down to the last few stairs, she saw two pairs of baggy jeans pressed together, as if one giant acid washed disaster. Birkenstocks and what looked like Tom’s Converse tangled together. Scanning up, it was Tom and Deena, kissing passionately. Prolly didn’t hear Sheila because she didn’t make a sound. She padded back up the stairs in her bare feet hoping they didn’t notice her at all. How could he be attracted to her? Her of all people? At the top of the stairs, she put her crippling five-inch heels back on and hobbled back to her desk.
ha! Oh, this is so good and funny. and even funnier that she thought HE needed a makeover! (This reminds me that one of these days I'd better bleach my teeth. Sheesh, i'm looking like Marta/Deena over here.)
Maurice and Tiffany were downsizing. Not because they’d finished raising their children in a big house and now wanted a sweet little pied-a-terre. No. They were downsizing because, entering retirement, they were reckoning with the consequences of their lives as the proverbial grasshoppers. They’d spent every dollar they’d ever earned before it had a chance to settle in their checking account. Quit every job as soon as the notion of moving on occurred. Lived for today, in nice houses, partying, traveling, and consuming with no thought for tomorrow.
Now, as they passed age 65, when current employers declare you a redundancy and new employers want nothing to do with your outdated skills and uncoachability, they found themselves with nothing except social security. No IRA. No pension. No real estate. Nothing.
And, so, they moved into a tiny furnished apartment in a failing neighborhood. Grim. Grey. Dirty.
Their shared joie de vivre, their willingness to embrace every new experience, their nearly constant happiness, abandoned them. Each hid their private torments. Maurice didn’t tell Tiffany that he’d lately found himself tearing up in their tiny plastic shower. Tiffany didn’t tell Maurice that she’d been lying awake at night wondering how they would cope if the car broke down or one of them got sick. No. Each put on a good face for the other.
So it was that each of them hid from the other the most disturbing of their private torments. Each was convinced that he or she was now suffering from dementia, a catastrophic development.
The cause: each had noticed something moving about in the old fridge. Scurrying just out of sight. Maurice suspected roaches. Tiffany rodents. Each tried to catch the fleeting movements. Eventually each concluded that the creatures weren’t roaches or rodents. No. These were tiny polar bears. At least 30. How? Why? Only possible conclusion: demented hallucination.
Finally, one night, after much cheap wine, Tiffany tearfully shared her self-diagnosis. Hearing her describe her hallucinations, Maurice began to weep, not with sorrow, but joy. They realized that it was not dementia, but actual tiny polar bears. And therein lay salvation. You’ve seen the ads: the tiny polar bears in the fridge singing the praises of this or that cold processed food. Those are real little bears and every time you see one, Maurice and Tiffany take home a bit of money which will fund their profligate lifestyle forever more.
I chose “The vending machine in the basement of the rec”. FYI, I am continuing to write about Nelson, a character I’m developing.
Nelson darted into the only open door he could locate. This time, he was not in pursuit. He was being pursued. He couldn’t tell who or how many, but he was stressed.
Getting hidden became his top priority — no time to think about who or what.
Inside, he ran down a stairwell. On his left were locker rooms. Not good. Too few places to hide. One on the right caught his attention: vending machines. It was lunchtime. There would probably be a group or two of people to hide among. Being hot and thirsty, Nelson took that option.
With experienced eyes, Nelson scanned the room. A line of vending machines occupied the wall in front of him. On the left was a counter with a small microwave, a sink, and a two-pot coffee machine. Tables and chairs were spread out around the room. He spotted what looked like a utility room in the back right corner. A couple of tables were occupied. A dozen or so fit-looking people were chatting. Two were at the vending machine. Good. He walked over and scanned his options. For god’s sake, I don’t need a buffet, only a simple drink.
But here was vitamin water, several other types of water, four kinds of Coke, and other drinks…What the hell? Then he noticed iced tea. Yes! Perfect. Jesus, now, he had to decide on sweetened or unsweetened. What happened to the days when you just put a quarter in and popped the only option you had? He chose the unsweetened tea and pushed the button. Nothing happened. Nelson looked around. Frightened and wary. Time was moving. He was getting more concerned about his chasers. Time seemed to accelerate, every passing second amplifying his anxiety.
Again, he pushed the vending button. Nothing. Then he noticed the red light: Insert $1.00. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a dollar. Inserting the bill, the machine suddenly lit up, then went dark again. He waited. Nothing. Nelson pushed the button again. Nothing. And again, nothing. What was this “Dr. Strangelove?”
Suddenly, the corridor was a blast of noise, and the door burst open. Nelson dove under the closest table. Silence surrounded him. Then chaos. He shoved the table, spilling food and drinks, ran directly at his shocked pursuers, plowed them over, and lept up the stairs.
Belinda wants to play horsey. That’s always been fine, but things are different now.
Used to be she’d get on my back and we’d gallop around the dining room table. Yeehaw! she’d whinny. Giddy up up UP! Around and around, then collapsing in a pile, our arms and legs splayed every which way.
We’d mosey over to the fridge after our gallop and grab something with hops to guzzle. I always brought some when I visited. At first I wasn’t sure Belinda should have any, but it was either that or one of the bottles of Polar Springs that lined the middle shelf. She turned up her nose at water, so hops it was. The snickers and giggles would calm down, but we’d drink more and they’d come back until she was outright guffawing on the linoleum. It’s great to have a niece who loves life as much as Belinda does. That’s what makes it all so sad.
Not long ago we did our gallop and prance and all was just fine and dandy. We caught our breath on the floor. Her giggles were pretty weak, though. I looked at her. Somehow she was getting a little frosty looking. I can’t really explain it. Her nose seemed a different shape, sort of round, not nosey, and her black eyes looked small and round. Her ears were whitish, like little, rounded snow-capped peaks. Her eyes got even smaller and her nose started turning dark. Did her hands have fur on them?
I said, “You’re not looking like your usual horsewoman self, Belinda.”
“I was thirsty before you got here and had a Polar Springs bottle. It was really cold and I haven’t warmed up yet. Brrrrr.”
I went to the fridge and saw the gap in the water bottle lineup. Then a mini sort of snort sounded behind me and I started to turn and a little white furry critter jumped past me into the fridge and darted through the gap in the bottles.
A little head poked into the gap from behind the bottles and said “Close the door! It’s getting warm in here!”
Next time I came over Belinda wanted a ride, but how could I? Plus, she had some friends with her. 29 other little, I swear, polar bears. They was so tiny and light as a feather I knew they’d fall off my back and I’d stampede all over them. What kind of uncle would do that?
[Couldn't decide which prompt to use....and pretty sure I broke the 400 word barrier too...yikes...]
“Shit!” I hear her yell as the coffee runs down her arm, across the counter and onto the seats of the Porsche idling at the take out window. “Another fucking bee!” The driver is pissed, but we think it’s manageable, until he gets out of the car with some sort of stick, or maybe it’s a flashlight, and he takes a swing at us, catching Janet on the ear. Then there’s blood running into the Porsche and our manager running toward the window. He slips on the coffee that spilled on our floor inside, crushing a couple of the bees that are lapping up the latte froth, and his pony tail comes undone, reminding me vaguely of the horse’s mane on my niece’s play horse that she always wants me to ride, even though it’s only like 10” tall. They’re both a really weird purplish brown. That’s when I notice the cigarettes rolling out of his pocket and toward the coffee puddle. They're the kind you can only get from that greasy vending machine downstairs at the rec center, near the folded up ping pong tables by the dumpster. Only weirdos buy them.
We’d heard it was a thing, the bees stinging people at the Starbuck’s drive up windows, but nobody really believed it, especially since we first heard it at the wedding, from Janet’s mother who was always drunk, but at the wedding was especially drunk, like Jack Daniels drunk, because Meghan was pouring and it was her last night. Janet’s mother was always good for a laugh, or a cringe, and it did help some people, well me, feel superior, but also, she seemed to have more fun than most of us. But we also thought she might be insane because the whole 30 polar bears in her refrigerator thing. So, you get it, nobody believed her. But the bee thing turned out to be true after all. Even a broken clock is right twice a day.
Fortunately Gladys came out from the back and that calmed things down. She has that kind of presence, maybe because she’s a blonde, or maybe because she’s a tae kwon do champion. Either way, it gets quiet when she shows up. The first thing she asks is where Anthony the new guy who is supposed to be working the window is. Nobody has seen him for a week so we’re pretty sure he’s gone back to teaching sociology. Or he might have taken that other gig. His buddy from Moscow turned him onto it. Sounded sort of shady to us. “Yeah right, live chickens. Wink wink. What are you really shipping over there?”
By now, Porsche guy has left to drop his kid off at a birthday party, or to pick up his wife who got stuck at the party, drinking or something. As he pulled out he was mumbling, maybe even in Russian, about the fucking 'bubble guy.'
hahahaha! A Full Press! So much fun to read--like we all are in this one in-joke together. Thanks for playing along, Kurt. Hats off to adding the bubble guy.
HAH. The fucking "bubble guy." I think we all have an image of him implanted in our brains now. This is hilarious! Love the commotion at the drive up window! Well done.
You thought you could just drop your kid off at this birthday party and leave, but apparently all the parents are staying and drinking wine while their kids watch the bubble guy perform.
“Here we are, pumpkin. Mommy will walk you in, but I’ll pick you up later.”
She scrunched her cute little nose, and I tried not to laugh at the way her lips pursed like a Kardashian who had gone too far with the lip filler. “Mom. No. All the other mommies will be there.”
I had dreamed of this two hour window in my overbooked, stressed out schedule all week but her pleading eyes hit me like a puppy in a shelter ad.
“Okay. I’ll stay for a little bit until you get settled. What’s your friends name again?”
Every year it was the same. New class, new friends, new moms to connect with. The invite had come home in the lunchpail with a number to text. I dug my phone out searching for the mom’s name.
“Her name is Kendall.”
Of course.
The front door was open. We wandered in following the screeches and giggles from the back yard. Standing in the doorway of the slider to the deck, I gave a weak wave. A blond in a bikini top and a pair of daisy dukes leapt up from her seat and greeted me with an enthusiastic “Hi” Barbie would be proud of.
Feeling frumpy in my mom jeans and baggy T-shirt, I held out a gift bag and patted my daughter, who had now melded her body into my leg.
“Hi, I’m Cassie, and this is my daughter, Amy.”
She blinded me with her perfect white teeth. “Welcome. You all just find yourselves a seat and I’ll fetch you a drink. White or red?”
“Excuse me?”
“Or I can get you a beer if you prefer?”
At eleven in the morning? I glanced around and realized all the moms had drinks in their hands and it wasn’t their first one. They were laughing at the guy who was performing some kind of show with bubbles. He looked like he could grace the cover of a romance novel with his sculpted blond hair, scruffy chin and well-developed pecs. The kids had gotten bored and were running around the back yard having sword fights with the Smore sticks.
Oh god. I can’t leave Amy here.
I asked Amy if she wanted to stay. To my relief she squeaked an adamant no.
I shoved the gift into the woman’s hand. “Just stopped to drop off a gift. Cya.”
(I used "the mother of the bride is drunk.")
This is on the twenty-eighth floor of the Markham building downtown, famous for the bathroom stall windows with their views of the Olympics, the islands, and the vast blue of Puget Sound. But the mother of the bride-to-be, she’s not looking out the window. In fact, it seems she never made it into a stall at all as there is a small splash of vomit next to her face. I pray she does not get vomit in her hair and in that moment she does. The sisters—oh, those nasty sisters—they are laughing, and I’m not sure what to do. If her own daughters aren’t going to help her off the floor, is it my place to do so? They are hysterical with laughter, mind you. Well, I could have told you we were headed someplace bad (though I never imagined this particular scenario) when the comments began over the first course. (Rehearsal dinner.) The mother of the bride said there was something she needed to say, and then there was the shouting, and then the mother ran out of the room and the drunken sisters followed. And finally, well, it seemed someone should go see what was going on and that someone turned out to be me.
“Sorry” I said to her, slightly shoving her face away from the vomit and throwing down a few entirely ineffectual paper towels.
The odor—horrible.
“What should we do?” I said to the laughing sisters, which only made them laugh harder, which momentarily covered the sound of the mother’s ugly weeping. There are scenes you remember the rest of your life and I knew in that moment I was in the middle of one.
Perhaps my date (groom’s brother) was a nice enough guy, I’ll never know. I peeked in a stall to see the famous view—yes, it’s true, the mountains looked fabulous, the sun was just then beginning to set—walked out of the bathroom and headed for the elevator. Wedding went off, I was told later. But then—cocaine, gambling, another woman—well, turns out the mother of the bride was right after all.
Using the bride being drunk as way of getting to the mother?
I'm, frankly, surprised Mary: so long thinking of you being so much more sideways on and subtlety surreptitious than that!
🤣 Stay as sideways on and just as surreptitiously subtle as you choose, or choose not, to be Mary.
The bride's not drunk. The mother of the bride is. (I guess I need to do some editing to make it more clear.) The mother of the bride is on the bathroom floor, sick from drinking too much, along with two sisters of the bride. The bride is in the other room, having dinner.
No need to even, for so much as a passing nanosecond, consider editing Mary. Marvellous. Your piece that is, but even more so your switch to posting 'Something Different', which I for one think is quite the masterstroke.
Likely off the page, me that is, for a while. Further surgery on my troublesome left eye is upcoming early next week and, until 'Scrubs' notes on what I can and should not be doing post operatively are advised to me, I know better than to assume let alone presume.
Be seein' y'all 😎, hopefully sooner rather than later.
Oh, my sweet Rob. I so hope that everything goes well with that eye of yours. I'll be thinking of you and eagerly awaiting your return. xox
Ooh. A wedding guest who escaped the fiasco.
#3 the chicks of Moscow
The chickens of Moscow shit just like any other chickens of this world. It’s amazing how a bird originating in the sub tropics of Indonesia winds up in the icy streets of Moscow and why they continue to live there like the ancient dinosaurs they are never comfortable in the snow.
The chickens in Hawaii wonder the streets and peck at your toes when you drink your coffee at the Aloha Press. Always begging for crumbs of your cinnamon roll.
I don’t particularly like or dislike chickens, it’s just the poop on the deck next to my chair on my sandals that causes my distress. Chickens don’t expel liquid pee; the pee ejects with the poop –– which is the dark color, and the pee is the white content. Also, after observing chickens I don’t believe they can see directly in front of their beak. Note how they turn their head to the side to peer at you. That’s probably why they cross the road.
Furthermore, the chickens of Moscow are like any other chicken of the world and have the ability to peer one eye into the sky in search of an incoming hawk and the other eye to the ground to search for a beguiling city ant on his way home from road construction.
Куры Москвы - I'm sure that this is a Chekhov story that remains out there, in the great somewhere, to be discovered in an old ottoman, long stood shaded, backed up to the clapperboard house wall on the porch of a dacha where The Greatest Literally Consumptive Writer of Them All was wont to dash of a story, each day of his stays.
Антону тост с пшеничной водкой 🥂
Роберт: тост с картофельной водкой
thank you
Robert really enjoyed being toasted with your finest potato vodka.
Спасибо
хорошее здоровье not just for now but for all of your coming futures
Здоровья вам обоим!
👍 from one of us, 👍 from the other of us.
Ευχαριστώ Μαίρη as my Greek friends might well say.
Way to take this prompt and run with it! "That's probably why they cross the road." So good.
thank you, so much fun!!
What a wonderful final line!
“’Debby slams into Florida.’”
“What?”
“’Debby slams into Florida.’”
Clara stared at Phil, hunched over his laptop, getting muffin crumbs on the keyboard. He didn’t seem to care. She did. And just what was he prattling on about? “Who’s ‘Bebby’?”
“Huh”? At least Phil was confirming that he heard her, that’s a start.
“’Bebby’. Who, or what, is ‘Bebby’?”
“It’s Debby, not Bebby, Clara. According to the Daily Mail she’s slamming into Florida.”
“What the hell does that even mean, Phil. And why are you reading that trash paper?”
“I think Debby is a hurricane. And she’s slamming into Florida.” Phil absentmindedly picked at his nose, inspected the result, smearing it on his napkin.
“Shit, Phil, that’s so gross, stop picking your nose at the table.”
“Huh?”
“Your nose. Stop picking your nose at the table. Save that for when you’re driving, then I won’t have to see it at least.”
Phil was still immersed in the Daily Mail’s coverage of extreme American weather. He started to giggle, but managed to speak between giggles. “Get this quote, ‘When the water rises, when you have streets that are flooded, that’s hazardous.’ You know who said this? I mean, you just have to guess who in Florida has such brilliance.”
“I don’t feel like games, Phil.”
“Aww, come on, guess, pretty pretty please.” Phil was using his baby voice. Clara hated that.
“OK, Phil, fuck it. Did DeSantis say that?”
Phil was crestfallen. Made a sad face. “Well, yes, it was him. I just thought it was funny.”
Clara shook her head, got up from the kitchen table and went to the fridge to get more milk for her coffee.
Clara was happy to see Bill was still there. “Hi, Bill, could you hand me that milk carton on the shelf?”
“Hi Clara, great to see you. I heard your convo with Phil. You know, the offer is still open. You can join us in here at any time. There’s only 30 of us in here now, I’m sure there’s room for one more.” Bill smiled as he handed Clara the milk carton.
Clara smiled back. She had been giving Bill’s offer a lot of thought lately, but hadn’t decided to take the plunge yet. Bill made it sound so appealing, living with 30 miniature polar bears in a near-perfect climate-controlled environment. And they all seemed so friendly. And smart. Certainly better conversationalists than Phil. But no, not yet. Maybe after breakfast.
Oh, you got me! Thinking Clara and Phil are gonna fight over the bill only to find 30 mini polar bears in the fridge. Thanks for the laugh this morning, Mark. (No picking your nose while driving! Gross!)
Our sociology professor hasn’t shown up to class for a full week now. On Monday everyone left after waiting 20 minutes. On Wednesday half the class was absent too. By Friday there were only eight of us, the die-hard curious. Pamela lodged a complaint with the department head. She wants to drop and get a refund for the class. Devin thinks it’s part of an experiment to observe and examine our collective response and social behaviors with regard to our missing professor. And me? Why do I keep showing up? Because I know where Professor Coe is and my attendance is a necessary part of my alibi.
Amazing story!!! Well done, Marcy!
Next prompt could be about a missing writing professor…👀😕
NOOOO!!!!
But with a happy outcome!
As long as she leaves with the hot guy in the end....
Love this one!
Perfect! I killed him in my small piece as well. Well done!
Wow! I love this one. So juicy. I have to know, you know?
It was my father's given responsibility, following his early retirement from the army due to injury, to tally the wild chickens of Moscow and to account for their whereabouts in his weekly reports. Officially, his job was to ensure that none of the birds living within the Garden Ring were eaten by the population who were starving in order to prove some laboured political point to the West, where there was always plenty of chicken to go round, along with hamburgers and other meats.
When a bird was missing my father would turn detective. He would wander the streets in the company of a shaggy black dog who would pad alongside in the snow with its head bowed and emit a piteous strangled howl whenever it smelled cooked poultry.
It was common for families who found a dead chicken to task their children with presenting it to my father. They feared they would be suspected of killing it. Perhaps secretly they hoped they would be allowed to keep it for themselves. The dead chickens were dispatched by my father to The Ministry for Agriculture and Food where they were cycled through five separate departments until they had amassed the required paperwork.
My father unfortunately lived to see the fall of the old Soviet order. Within a week all of the wild chickens in Moscow had been slaughtered and eaten. The dog, with no kennel to return to, remained in his ownership. During that first week it howled almost continuously in response to the smell of roast chicken emanating from the apartment blocks.
There have been attempts to reintroduce populations of the birds to the city but they are always immediately stolen for food. They are one of the few populations to have benefited from living in a police state. We will have to wait for the return of Communism to see them come home to roost.
Fantastic! I love the tone, the seriousness of this absurdity. Makes it seem almost real.
That is a perfect final sentence!
Wow!
Man steps up to the counter at a pet store. He sets down a picnic ice chest.
Clerk: How can I help you?
Man: I’d like to return the Arctic Set. I bought it for my daughter a few weeks ago. We should still be under warranty.
Clerk: What date?
Man: The 20th, not any earlier.
Clerk: So, what’s the problem?
Man: It’s been a nightmare. They’ve taken over the refrigerator.
Clerk: It’s a transition. Did you put up the nighttime sky? Usually that settles them.
Man: With the pin pricks in the paper? Yes. I hung it from over the fridge light. North Star to the door.
Clerk: How many did you defrost?
Man: We defrosted the little polar bear first. He was immediately aggressive. He thought I was the one that froze him. Then we built the arctic world just like it said in the instructions. Large flat ice floating freely in a baking dish away from the back wall. Hang the starlit sky from 3pm to 11am. During the day put gauze over the refrigerator light to make a winter sun.
Clerk: The ice definitely floated on top of the water so they could get at the anchovies?
Man: Yes.
Clerk: Just one anchovy a day?
Man: Yes.
Clerk: You only defrosted out the one polar bear?
Man: Well, no. My daughter thought the first bear was lonely, so she defrosted most of the others without asking. All thirty of them. One of the babies got into the milk carton. My wife is furious.
Clerk: I mean it happens. Did you defrost the Inuits?
Man: Briefly.
Clerk: I may have to speak to my manager if you defrosted the Inuits.
Man: Well, that’s outrageous. I’ve got thirty polar bears in this ice chest that took over my refrigerator.
Clerk: I believe you. And you planted the cotton grass in the stick of butter?
Clerk: Yes. Everything like it said.
Clerk (indicating the ice chest): May I?
Man nods.
Clerk raises a miniature polar bear on his finger. The polar bear stands up on its rear legs and paws the air fiercely. It has a yawning red mouth. You can just barely hear it peep.
Man: Actually, my daughter defrosted a puffin, too, but we can’t find it. Everything else is still in there on ice.
Clerk: Alright. I’ll take them back. Mary will take care of you.
This is hilarious. And so well-written! Thanks for playing along this week. "Did you defrost the Inuits?" Oh, my god, too funny.
Thanks, Mary. I'm glad I discovered your site. I can see these prompts will be useful when I'm at a loss for something to write.
Brilliant!
Nothing would make me happier than stringing up black paper with pinpricks to make constellations in my refrigerator. :-)
Absolutely fantastic!
Thank you, Danielle. I thought I got lucky early on in the imagination front. Sometimes I can stare at this kind of thing for hours. What helped me was that I had like 10 other things I was supposed to be doing. So a huge distraction was just the ticket.
Loved how the story snowballs to Inuits and puffins!
Thank you! The prompt was fantastic. Who couldn't like polar bears in the fridge? (Well, apparently my guy.) I'm going to tweak it a bit and post it on my site next week.
Where's the puffin? Maybe doing laps with the baby bear in the milk? So much fun, so well done.
If you now Monty Python, you might recognize the Dead Parrot sketch in here. (A guy is trying to return a parrot to the store that the store clerk insists isn't dead.) The absurdity of the situation is wonderful. For me the underlying fun was the miracle of having these creatures in your freezer and not even seeing it.
The reception was being held in the House with the Toilet on its Roof. You know the one–with the pair of legs in garish orange tights and stilettos hanging out of the toilet bowl. Meghan had suggested a pair of jeans with a cool pair of boots. No one listened to Meghan. This was her final gig as bartender for Chickens of Moscow Catering.
It had been quite a day. When her sociology professor hadn’t shown up for class in a week, she was appointed to check on him. Found him. Dead. Face down on his desk in the middle of researching the impact of social media on physical health. HIs Facebook page had still been open to “Update.” The overly-officious police inspector finally let her leave in time to grab a quick burger and fries at the McDonalds drive through. It was closed due to “Sever Bee Allgergies.
”At least they could have spelled it right,” she thought as she accelerated out of the lot.
She was late. The bride and groom had not arrived yet. No one knew where they were. So far, the restive guests had emptied the keg and drank all but one bottle of the wine. They were dangerously low on stronger spirits.The door opened and a harried looking mother pushed her young daughter inside. The little girl screamed. “This isn’t a birthday party!”
“Ma’am? Ma’am!” Meghan yelled, running for the door. “You want the rec center next door!” Meghan pointed the way. Three belligerent attendees leaned on the bar demanding more liquid refreshments.
“I suggest you follow that woman to the rec center next door.” Meghan replied. “There is a vending machine in the basement.” She shrugged. At least they might find some Mountain Dew. She turned and barely caught a balding guy in a too tight suit as he wrenched open the refrigerator door. She shoved him aside and slammed the door shut.
“You’ll lose a couple of fingers!” she bellowed. “There are 30 tiny polar bears living in there!”
She held up one bandaged hand, blood seeping through the gauze she had hurriedly wound around it 30 minutes ago.
She noticed a woman slumped on the floor and ran over to her. “Ma’am? Are you all right?”
“I’m Gladysssss…ssss.” she hiccupped.
“Mother of the bride,” Too-tight suit explained. “Drinking while playing horses with her niece.”
I just decided to use them all. I wrote one that got long and it will be part of the book--the day that gets worse and worse and then Gladys. So I made this one the day that gets worse and worse with all the other prompts thrown in.
And I saw the prompt you pulled these from and saved a few myself last week. Great fun!
She's going to post the rest of them at some point--good list to have handy!
SO fun to see you using all the prompts. I started rooting for the polar bears to show up - but I had forgotten about Gladys!
OH MY GOD!!!!! this is SOOOOO hilarious!!!
Thank you. It was fun!
Oooh... so neat, if I can't pick one, why, what else I pick'em all.
FYI Meghan wasn't in the least arsed about not being listened to because her next shift was booked, signed and sealed, as a Go-to-Girl at Wild Turkeys of Moscow.
That would be a great story!
Great one! Loved that you used them all. I did too and had a blast. Three cheers for maximalism.!
Fantastic!
Hahaha. Terrific
Tuesday
The sociology professor hasn’t shown up to class for a full week now. It’s a real shame; out of all my subjects I was most looking forward to learning about society—Conflict Theory, Outgroup Homogeneity, Isolationism. Instead we’ve learnt lickety split! I should’ve taken chemistry instead.
Wednesday
Thomas says we need a new teacher, and I totally agree. We’re paying serious dosh for this course and we need to do something about it. I’ve begun to fantasise about this illusive professor. In my mind he has a villainous moustache and monobrow and through security cameras looks on us with with a constant sneer.
Thursday
My neck crick is worsening. Sleeping in a lecture hall chair hurts but what can I do when the jock boys have claimed the floor? They hoard the food when it clunks down the chute in the ceiling; they’re bigger, they say, and require more sustaince. Might is right, apparently.
Last night was cold. Thomas and I huddled into each other for warmth. He whispered we need to do something about these jocks, and I whispered my concurrence—but we’re both weedy, bookish types.
Friday
We’ve been using the cold as a guise for our plotting, cuddling into those most physically feeble to whisper our plan. I think we’ve formed a strong resistance. On our side: Cassandra, whose been screwing a jock in the corner every night. So tomorrow we act. Thom is nervous, but I’ve reassured him it must succeed for there is no other option.
Saturday
Cassandra’s a snake, an informant, went whispering our whispers to the jocks. We got our first lecture today—not the new teacher I wanted—the beefiest jock took to the lectern and roared, ‘Who’s ya leader?!’ He threatened to reduce our rations. ‘Who’s ya leader?!’ He put a red-haired kid in a headlock.‘ Who’s ya leader?!’ Thomas came forth. They strung Thom up naked in front of the chalkboard and graffitied insults around him in a cloud.
Three Months Later
Today, while I gave one of the beef-heads a foot massage, the sociology professor unlocked the door. She’s tall, wears cat-eye specs and definitely does not have a villainous moustache. She adjusted the position of the lecturn’s mic and asked, ‘This semester, what did we learn?’ I decided to switch degrees after that—to chemistry—it’ll be better career-wise, financially, and I think for my sanity and soul.
Great ending! Really such a good and creepy little story. (I don't know where you live and maybe it means something different there, but here in the U.S. lickety-split means "speedy.")
You’re right, it means speedy in Australia too. Think I got my wires crossed with the rhyming ‘Jack shit’
Thanks for continuing to post these Mary. I've been absent for a while, but it's good to be back!
My pleasure! And happy to see you back here!
Polar bears, refrigerator
"The refrigerator has an issue," Becky says.
I look up. "How can a refrigerator have an issue?"
Becky stops, stiffens, looks at me. Hard. "Are we going to have one of your philosophical debates over what is a simple practical issue?"
"So you mean this is simple and practical?"
"Of course that's what I mean! Obviously!"
I look down at my book again. "Have you checked the power is on?"
"Have I what?"
"Checked the power is on."
For an instant, she is speechless. I know I'm sailing very close to the wind, but I really don't want to spend hours messing with a fussy old fridge. "You know, honey, the simplest things are often the ones we forget."
She doesn't like being called honey. And she hates mansplaining. I don't know why I do it. Perversity, most likely.
"Listen up, Mr Man-About-The-House-My-Ass," she says with a more than adequate dose of venom. "The refrigerator is Not. Working. Correctly. And your job is, you fix it!"
I sigh and close my book. Wasn't much good, anyway. "OK, doc," I say. "What are the symptoms?"
"I put stuff in there, and it disappears."
"What kind of stuff?"
She succeeds in catching my eye. I wish she wouldn't do that. "That question is so stupid I don't know how even you could come up with it," she says. "I mean, what would YOU put in the fridge?"
I think about it. "Beer?"
She takes a deep breath, then does nothing with it. "No beer," she says quietly.
"I put a six-pack in this morning."
"There is no beer. No milk, no cheese, no butter, no eggs, no yogurt, no <brand name omitted>. That fridge is empty."
If I really wanted to, I could win this one, but my curiosity was piqued. I got to my feet. "Probably a thief," I mumbled, but I went through to the kitchen.
The power was on (first thing I looked at). The light came on when I opened the door. There was nothing in there. She was right. The cupboard was bare.
"We had a thief!" I called.
"How did they walk past you to get into the kitchen?" she called back.
I said nothing.
"And why didn't they take my purse which is right there on the counter?"
I said nothing.
I made some rummaging and repair noises.
Then I went back out. "You're not going to believe this," I said. "But... There are thirty tiny polar bears living in the refrigerator."
hahahaha! I don't know why i laughed so hard a the end when i KNEW it was coming, but it was so funny anyway! Thanks for playing along today. Super fun little story.
It's a shaggy dog story. Distract attention during a long build-up, then drop the punchline just when everyone is thinking "It's got to come soon." At least, that's the theory.
Success!
[The vending machine in the basement of the rec center]
Maryann said you could get cigarettes from the vending machine. We left the Girl Scout meeting halfway through the butterfly lesson, saying we were going to the bathroom, and now here we were traipsing through cold, winding basement corridors, our shoes clacking on the dirty linoleum floors.
“I think we’re lost.”
“It’s got to be here somewhere,” Maryann said.
I jingled the change in my pocket. I didn’t think I had enough for a pack of cigarettes. I wasn’t even sure how much they cost. I had never even tried smoking a cigarette.
“Let’s go back,” I said, though at this point I wasn’t sure how to get back.
“Oh, here, I found it,” Maryann said, turning yet another corner.
The vending machine was grimy and brown, like everything else in the basement. It had eight knobs and a shelf below them to catch what you bought. But what would you buy? All of the eight chutes held identical brown, unmarked paper boxes.
“They’re cigarette boxes,” Maryann said confidently.
“Candy boxes,” I said, less confidently.
I tried twisting one of the knobs. The box above it bounced but didn’t fall.
Maryann pushed a quarter into the slot at the top, and I twisted the knob again. This time, a box fell onto the shelf.
She grabbed it and opened the top. “You see? Cigarettes.”
“No….” I pulled one of the white cylinders out of the box. We rolled it between our fingers, sniffed it, tasted it. “Chalk.”
“Now what?” I asked. But Maryann was already writing. I watched her scribble EVELYN O. WAS HERE with chalk on the brown wall. Evelyn O. was the Girl Scout we most detested.
I shook the box, spilling the other pieces of chalk into my hand. At the bottom was a folded piece of paper. I took it out, unfolded it, and replaced the chalk. Drawn on the paper was what looked like a maze, with an “X” somewhere near the middle.
Maryann looked over my shoulder. “It’s a map! Maybe there’s a treasure chest at the X.”
I turned the paper around a few times. “I think the X is where we are now.”
“Then which way do we go?”
I tried to match up the drawing with what I could remember of the corridors we’d walked through.
“This way.” And off we went.
Great start to a story!! Keep going!
Number 8: The vending machine is in the basement of the rec center. Wrote this on my quick break from work, it was fun, thank you!!!!!
It was true that Tom was the first young man the rec center had hired in a while, and Sheila began to fancy him. Not at first, mostly because of his teeth, his bad haircut, and his saggy jeans. Not her type usually, but he began to pop up in Sheila’s dreams the past few weeks, and she found herself dressing to please him, heels, short skirts and skorts, fake lashes, she’d even whitened her teeth at the dental office. After she hooked him, she’d work on his whole sad look. He needed a make-over, that’s all.
She felt confident because there were only two other women at the rec center, plain Deena with her no make-up, frizzy hair, Birkenstocks without a pedicure (or those awful slide-ons that looked like baked potato feet). Sheila noticed Deena had Rosacea. Sheesh, get a facial already, she thought to herself. There was no competition there. Deena was a mess. The “before” picture in a beauty ad.
The other woman, Marta, was a happily married grandmother, so no worries there. Sheila, Tom, and Deena were still in their early twenties.
Sheila looked all over for Tom, and he was nowhere to be found, not at the front desk, not cleaning the bathrooms. She liked to find situations where she could stand close and chat him up, let her Shalimar perfume do it’s magic. She wondered if he’d gone down to the bowels of the rec center, down the long staircase where the vending machines were. Shit. I’ll have to take my shoes off. I’ll break my neck in these.
Sheila stood at the top of the staircase, her shoes in her hands, and made her way down the stairs. It was awfully quiet down there. When she got down to the last few stairs, she saw two pairs of baggy jeans pressed together, as if one giant acid washed disaster. Birkenstocks and what looked like Tom’s Converse tangled together. Scanning up, it was Tom and Deena, kissing passionately. Prolly didn’t hear Sheila because she didn’t make a sound. She padded back up the stairs in her bare feet hoping they didn’t notice her at all. How could he be attracted to her? Her of all people? At the top of the stairs, she put her crippling five-inch heels back on and hobbled back to her desk.
ha! Oh, this is so good and funny. and even funnier that she thought HE needed a makeover! (This reminds me that one of these days I'd better bleach my teeth. Sheesh, i'm looking like Marta/Deena over here.)
I wanted to write from inside the head of a mean, overly made up snarky woman with too much perfume on. Deena’s cool!
Oh, yes, I got the snarky one in the five-inch heels judging everyone around her. Shalimar! Too funny. But even so....my teeth.
My teeth, too. We can be like British rock stars.
Yes! Coffee Sisters!
Yes. I love Deena!
I’m wearing Burks right now!
I am, too!!!!
Me too.
Maurice and Tiffany were downsizing. Not because they’d finished raising their children in a big house and now wanted a sweet little pied-a-terre. No. They were downsizing because, entering retirement, they were reckoning with the consequences of their lives as the proverbial grasshoppers. They’d spent every dollar they’d ever earned before it had a chance to settle in their checking account. Quit every job as soon as the notion of moving on occurred. Lived for today, in nice houses, partying, traveling, and consuming with no thought for tomorrow.
Now, as they passed age 65, when current employers declare you a redundancy and new employers want nothing to do with your outdated skills and uncoachability, they found themselves with nothing except social security. No IRA. No pension. No real estate. Nothing.
And, so, they moved into a tiny furnished apartment in a failing neighborhood. Grim. Grey. Dirty.
Their shared joie de vivre, their willingness to embrace every new experience, their nearly constant happiness, abandoned them. Each hid their private torments. Maurice didn’t tell Tiffany that he’d lately found himself tearing up in their tiny plastic shower. Tiffany didn’t tell Maurice that she’d been lying awake at night wondering how they would cope if the car broke down or one of them got sick. No. Each put on a good face for the other.
So it was that each of them hid from the other the most disturbing of their private torments. Each was convinced that he or she was now suffering from dementia, a catastrophic development.
The cause: each had noticed something moving about in the old fridge. Scurrying just out of sight. Maurice suspected roaches. Tiffany rodents. Each tried to catch the fleeting movements. Eventually each concluded that the creatures weren’t roaches or rodents. No. These were tiny polar bears. At least 30. How? Why? Only possible conclusion: demented hallucination.
Finally, one night, after much cheap wine, Tiffany tearfully shared her self-diagnosis. Hearing her describe her hallucinations, Maurice began to weep, not with sorrow, but joy. They realized that it was not dementia, but actual tiny polar bears. And therein lay salvation. You’ve seen the ads: the tiny polar bears in the fridge singing the praises of this or that cold processed food. Those are real little bears and every time you see one, Maurice and Tiffany take home a bit of money which will fund their profligate lifestyle forever more.
Ha! Just goes to show: you should always discuss the things that are bothering you with your spouse.
He: "Darling, I'm so worried about the very tiny polar bears that are living in our fridge."
She: "Didn't you promise to stay off the mushrooms? Well, that's it! GoodBYE!" <packs bag, slams door>
He: <pours drinks for two> "Well, that worked better than expected!" <exchanges long, hot kiss with ravishing little polar bear-ette>
RLPBear-ette: "You're such a hunk! Let's go do it in the deep freeze!"
The moral of this story is: always discuss the things that are bothering you with your spouse.
[heart emoji] for mary g. who I am trolling
hahahaha!
I was wondering which prompt this was. The groundwork was fascinating; what a couple ! I'm glad the polar bears saved them.
Loved this. Very sweet.
I chose “The vending machine in the basement of the rec”. FYI, I am continuing to write about Nelson, a character I’m developing.
Nelson darted into the only open door he could locate. This time, he was not in pursuit. He was being pursued. He couldn’t tell who or how many, but he was stressed.
Getting hidden became his top priority — no time to think about who or what.
Inside, he ran down a stairwell. On his left were locker rooms. Not good. Too few places to hide. One on the right caught his attention: vending machines. It was lunchtime. There would probably be a group or two of people to hide among. Being hot and thirsty, Nelson took that option.
With experienced eyes, Nelson scanned the room. A line of vending machines occupied the wall in front of him. On the left was a counter with a small microwave, a sink, and a two-pot coffee machine. Tables and chairs were spread out around the room. He spotted what looked like a utility room in the back right corner. A couple of tables were occupied. A dozen or so fit-looking people were chatting. Two were at the vending machine. Good. He walked over and scanned his options. For god’s sake, I don’t need a buffet, only a simple drink.
But here was vitamin water, several other types of water, four kinds of Coke, and other drinks…What the hell? Then he noticed iced tea. Yes! Perfect. Jesus, now, he had to decide on sweetened or unsweetened. What happened to the days when you just put a quarter in and popped the only option you had? He chose the unsweetened tea and pushed the button. Nothing happened. Nelson looked around. Frightened and wary. Time was moving. He was getting more concerned about his chasers. Time seemed to accelerate, every passing second amplifying his anxiety.
Again, he pushed the vending button. Nothing. Then he noticed the red light: Insert $1.00. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a dollar. Inserting the bill, the machine suddenly lit up, then went dark again. He waited. Nothing. Nelson pushed the button again. Nothing. And again, nothing. What was this “Dr. Strangelove?”
Suddenly, the corridor was a blast of noise, and the door burst open. Nelson dove under the closest table. Silence surrounded him. Then chaos. He shoved the table, spilling food and drinks, ran directly at his shocked pursuers, plowed them over, and lept up the stairs.
Love the dr. strangelove comment! Also that this guy is being chased, but stops to get a drink! I could really visualize this whole scene. Nice job!
Mixed Breed
Belinda wants to play horsey. That’s always been fine, but things are different now.
Used to be she’d get on my back and we’d gallop around the dining room table. Yeehaw! she’d whinny. Giddy up up UP! Around and around, then collapsing in a pile, our arms and legs splayed every which way.
We’d mosey over to the fridge after our gallop and grab something with hops to guzzle. I always brought some when I visited. At first I wasn’t sure Belinda should have any, but it was either that or one of the bottles of Polar Springs that lined the middle shelf. She turned up her nose at water, so hops it was. The snickers and giggles would calm down, but we’d drink more and they’d come back until she was outright guffawing on the linoleum. It’s great to have a niece who loves life as much as Belinda does. That’s what makes it all so sad.
Not long ago we did our gallop and prance and all was just fine and dandy. We caught our breath on the floor. Her giggles were pretty weak, though. I looked at her. Somehow she was getting a little frosty looking. I can’t really explain it. Her nose seemed a different shape, sort of round, not nosey, and her black eyes looked small and round. Her ears were whitish, like little, rounded snow-capped peaks. Her eyes got even smaller and her nose started turning dark. Did her hands have fur on them?
I said, “You’re not looking like your usual horsewoman self, Belinda.”
“I was thirsty before you got here and had a Polar Springs bottle. It was really cold and I haven’t warmed up yet. Brrrrr.”
I went to the fridge and saw the gap in the water bottle lineup. Then a mini sort of snort sounded behind me and I started to turn and a little white furry critter jumped past me into the fridge and darted through the gap in the bottles.
A little head poked into the gap from behind the bottles and said “Close the door! It’s getting warm in here!”
Next time I came over Belinda wanted a ride, but how could I? Plus, she had some friends with her. 29 other little, I swear, polar bears. They was so tiny and light as a feather I knew they’d fall off my back and I’d stampede all over them. What kind of uncle would do that?
This is such a gentle, yet wild dream of a story!
[Couldn't decide which prompt to use....and pretty sure I broke the 400 word barrier too...yikes...]
“Shit!” I hear her yell as the coffee runs down her arm, across the counter and onto the seats of the Porsche idling at the take out window. “Another fucking bee!” The driver is pissed, but we think it’s manageable, until he gets out of the car with some sort of stick, or maybe it’s a flashlight, and he takes a swing at us, catching Janet on the ear. Then there’s blood running into the Porsche and our manager running toward the window. He slips on the coffee that spilled on our floor inside, crushing a couple of the bees that are lapping up the latte froth, and his pony tail comes undone, reminding me vaguely of the horse’s mane on my niece’s play horse that she always wants me to ride, even though it’s only like 10” tall. They’re both a really weird purplish brown. That’s when I notice the cigarettes rolling out of his pocket and toward the coffee puddle. They're the kind you can only get from that greasy vending machine downstairs at the rec center, near the folded up ping pong tables by the dumpster. Only weirdos buy them.
We’d heard it was a thing, the bees stinging people at the Starbuck’s drive up windows, but nobody really believed it, especially since we first heard it at the wedding, from Janet’s mother who was always drunk, but at the wedding was especially drunk, like Jack Daniels drunk, because Meghan was pouring and it was her last night. Janet’s mother was always good for a laugh, or a cringe, and it did help some people, well me, feel superior, but also, she seemed to have more fun than most of us. But we also thought she might be insane because the whole 30 polar bears in her refrigerator thing. So, you get it, nobody believed her. But the bee thing turned out to be true after all. Even a broken clock is right twice a day.
Fortunately Gladys came out from the back and that calmed things down. She has that kind of presence, maybe because she’s a blonde, or maybe because she’s a tae kwon do champion. Either way, it gets quiet when she shows up. The first thing she asks is where Anthony the new guy who is supposed to be working the window is. Nobody has seen him for a week so we’re pretty sure he’s gone back to teaching sociology. Or he might have taken that other gig. His buddy from Moscow turned him onto it. Sounded sort of shady to us. “Yeah right, live chickens. Wink wink. What are you really shipping over there?”
By now, Porsche guy has left to drop his kid off at a birthday party, or to pick up his wife who got stuck at the party, drinking or something. As he pulled out he was mumbling, maybe even in Russian, about the fucking 'bubble guy.'
hahahaha! A Full Press! So much fun to read--like we all are in this one in-joke together. Thanks for playing along, Kurt. Hats off to adding the bubble guy.
As the saying goes....I couldn't do it without you. Thanks so much. And thanks for turning me onto Rebecca Makkai. She's great.
She's a really wonderful writer.
HAH. The fucking "bubble guy." I think we all have an image of him implanted in our brains now. This is hilarious! Love the commotion at the drive up window! Well done.
Thanks. You too!
Also love the way you worked the sociology professor into this one! And Gladys in your piece sounds very cool.
I love it.
You thought you could just drop your kid off at this birthday party and leave, but apparently all the parents are staying and drinking wine while their kids watch the bubble guy perform.
“Here we are, pumpkin. Mommy will walk you in, but I’ll pick you up later.”
She scrunched her cute little nose, and I tried not to laugh at the way her lips pursed like a Kardashian who had gone too far with the lip filler. “Mom. No. All the other mommies will be there.”
I had dreamed of this two hour window in my overbooked, stressed out schedule all week but her pleading eyes hit me like a puppy in a shelter ad.
“Okay. I’ll stay for a little bit until you get settled. What’s your friends name again?”
Every year it was the same. New class, new friends, new moms to connect with. The invite had come home in the lunchpail with a number to text. I dug my phone out searching for the mom’s name.
“Her name is Kendall.”
Of course.
The front door was open. We wandered in following the screeches and giggles from the back yard. Standing in the doorway of the slider to the deck, I gave a weak wave. A blond in a bikini top and a pair of daisy dukes leapt up from her seat and greeted me with an enthusiastic “Hi” Barbie would be proud of.
Feeling frumpy in my mom jeans and baggy T-shirt, I held out a gift bag and patted my daughter, who had now melded her body into my leg.
“Hi, I’m Cassie, and this is my daughter, Amy.”
She blinded me with her perfect white teeth. “Welcome. You all just find yourselves a seat and I’ll fetch you a drink. White or red?”
“Excuse me?”
“Or I can get you a beer if you prefer?”
At eleven in the morning? I glanced around and realized all the moms had drinks in their hands and it wasn’t their first one. They were laughing at the guy who was performing some kind of show with bubbles. He looked like he could grace the cover of a romance novel with his sculpted blond hair, scruffy chin and well-developed pecs. The kids had gotten bored and were running around the back yard having sword fights with the Smore sticks.
Oh god. I can’t leave Amy here.
I asked Amy if she wanted to stay. To my relief she squeaked an adamant no.
I shoved the gift into the woman’s hand. “Just stopped to drop off a gift. Cya.”
yeah, i'd get out of there as fast as possible, too! Nice job with the prompt!