Day #5 – Vicious Cycle

Short Writings from Silly Prompts, ,

Today’s prompt: An accidental proposal at a crowded café.

Daisy watched Jack carefully as he entered the café that afternoon. Nobody in town could argue that Jack wasn’t always teetering in one direction or the other. Nobody who knew him, that is. His Aunt Elouise had heard the term ‘benign eccentricity’ at some point. Maybe stumbled upon it in her readings or heard it on one of those YouTube videos she watched to better educate herself. That’s what she told herself, anyhow. The point is, as soon as she heard the term, she said, “That’s Jack.”

And Elouise knew Jack better than almost anyone. She was the one who’d raised Jack after his mother up and disappeared. Of course, Jack, always the imaginative child, told people his mother had left to join the circus. That she was an accomplished high-wire act. But everyone in town knew that the only true part of that illusion was the word ‘high.’ They did the math from there.

The only person in town who knew Jack better than Elouise was Daisy. She and Jack had been a couple since eighth grade. And that day, when he staggered into the café, it was definitely the most off-kilter she’d seen him. Which was saying a lot. She stood behind the counter, rubbing her hands nervously on her apron. They were red and irritated from washing so much glassware. The café was buzzing, particularly busy as the holiday season approached. Outside, brilliant yellow leaves cascaded from the maple and blanketed the sidewalk. She remembered when she and Jack were children and would play in the leaves that dropped from that tree. The tree was much smaller back then. But then, so were they. The two would imagine themselves to be animals making their way through a magical world of colorful confetti thrown by friendly giants. Daisy would always pretend she was a horse. Always. But Jack chose a different animal each day. And it was always an exotic one. Tuesday he might be a wombat, Wednesday an okapi, then Thursday a Komodo dragon. Jack would insist the giants were throwing a grand party. And there was nothing that Jack liked more than a party. Once they grew too old to be imaginary creatures, Jack’s priorities shifted to finding the next good time.

Daisy had a different definition of a good time. Her abiding love for horses led to an appreciation for all animals. She’d started volunteering at the animal refuge on the edge of town when she was a freshman in high school and had been there ever since. When she wasn’t working at the café, making money in the hopes that she may escape someday, she was with those animals. Jack didn’t always like this.

“Daisy, Daisy, doodle-bug!” he slurred as he approached her at the counter.

She sighed. “What do you want, Jack?”

He stepped back from the counter and gave her an exaggerated pout. “Is that any way to talk to the love of your life?”

She sighed again. It was true. He was the love of her life. If you could call barely surviving in this suffocating little town a life. She noticed the pupils of Jack’s eyes were as huge and black as a cat’s stalking its prey. She couldn’t help but feel she might be his. “You know what I want,” he said, sidling back up the counter and blinking, his countenance now shifted to that of a needy little boy. But not the boy she once knew. “I want you to marry me!” he blurted out.

“No, you don’t,” she said sternly,

“Marry me!” he yelled this time, turning a few heads.

She widened her eyes and clenched her teeth. “You’re being ridiculous again,” she scolded in a harsh whisper. “Cut it out.”

“But I mean it!”

“No,” she began raising her voice, and a few more heads turned in their direction. “You don’t!”

He pouted again. “Why do you keep saying that!?” he whined.

“Because we’ve been here before,” she said, trying to hold back her frustration. “And tomorrow you won’t remember that you accidentally proposed to me. You’ll deny it.”

“I won’t.”

“You will, Jack. You always do. And I’m not doing it anymore. In fact, ya know what?” she asked, taking off her apron and throwing it to the floor. “I’m not doing ANY of this,” she waved around the room, “anymore. I’m done with this stupid, shitty town!”

Jack sat down in a chair and put his head down on a table, and she stared at him. The crowded café had gone quiet. Then he began to laugh. Uproariously. Others joined in, though not entirely sure why they were laughing. And Daisy watched it all through tear-filled eyes.

She knew Jack recognized how preposterous her declaration was. Unlike Jack’s mom, Daisy couldn’t just skip town. Her own mother had recently fallen ill, and she knew she’d need to stay to care for her. She also knew she’d never leave that horrible little town. That she’d someday finally marry Jack out of desperation or boredom and they’d spit out a kid or two.

And that the whole cycle would begin again.

Day #4 – Strolling the Red (Cross) Carpet

Short Writings from Silly Prompts, , ,

Today’s prompt: You are the personal stylist for a yeti who wants to be fashionable.

When Patrick emailed me inquiring about my services, I wasn’t sure if he was being honest. In retrospect, he wasn’t entirely forthcoming. He said he was going to be accepting an award at a prestigious event and wanted to appear fashionable. That much was true. He also claimed to be a larger fellow with a commanding presence. His words, not mine. But also true, it turns out. He spoke of being an older gentleman. Now, depending on how picayune you want to be about the definition of older and gentle, that admission was a little nebulous. Whatever the case, he concluded the email with a number where I could reach him. So I called him, and once we got past the niceties, the part I most despise, we got right to business.

“You said you are an older gentleman,” I said. “Could you be more specific?”

Patrick cleared his throat. His voice was deep and throaty. “I may have stretched the truth on that a little. Or underplayed it, more like.”

Just as I suspected.

“I’m not old so much as ancient,” he said. “I’m 185.”

I laughed. “Well, I’m sure you’re young at heart,” I said, deciding to go along with the joke. He was obviously embarrassed by his age and likely not the commanding presence he claimed to be. Perhaps more of a legend in his own mind. He was probably a frail, yet stately, old man attending some podunk awards ceremony at a VFW hall or a Wendy’s.

His booming, almost savage voice betrayed this, though.

“And I’m not always so gentle,” he added. I know. It sounds cringey on paper. But he did not state this in that skeevy way some men have of making everything sexual. “I’ve had to do some things I’m not proud of… for the sake of survival.” He paused again. “You see, I’ve had what some would call a solitary life.”

Oh, okay! NOW I was getting it. I’d gotten him all wrong. He wasn’t a fragile little old man. He was clearly some weirdo, probably living in a bunker, munching on dry ramen, and brandishing an impressive collection of firearms all bearing Biblical names. He probably peed in a can he kept next to his bare mattress, covered with stains that could not and SHOULD not be explained. And the award? Likely a medal or a knife or something from some whack organization like the Conspiracy Theorists of America who find it impossible to get everyone together for the ceremony because nobody believes anybody else about the location or purpose of the event.

“I should have added that I am a yeti,” he finally said. Okay. Fine. I can admit I’m not much of an intuitive person. I can elevate your wardrobe in ways that would blow your mind, though.

“That makes so much more sense,” I said, explaining to him what I’d been thinking just moments before. We both laughed (or bellowed, in his case), and then he shared that he did sleep on a stained mattress, which I didn’t need to know. I’m often the recipient of unwanted information. I suppose that’s the personal part of personal stylist. Or, in this case, yetial stylist.

“I’m receiving an award from the Red Cross,” he said.

“Really!?” I gasped. “That’s so cool! What for?”

“For saving a couple of lost trekkers in the Himalayas.”

“Oh!” I said, truly impressed.

“And, subsequently, not eating them,” he added. “So, do you think you can help me? Can you make an old yeti look presentable on the red carpet?”

“I believe I can. As long as you don’t try to eat me,” I said, only half joking.

“I won’t,” he assured me. “I’m a vegetarian.”

“Then count me in,” I said. “So, I’m going to assume you’re a winter…”

Day #3 – Of Centaurs and Banshees

Short Writings from Silly Prompts, , ,

My job is not an easy one. But it is a rewarding one. Sure, if you’d asked me ten years ago if I’d ever rise to fame as a writer of horoscopes for mythological creatures, I’d have inquired about the mind-altering chemicals you’d ingested and then, depending on my mood, either suggested rehab or asked whether you’d be willing to share. Alas, no one can see into the future. Well, I mean, I kind of do. Horoscopes and all that. And before you accuse me of dealing in astrological hokum, I’d like to regale you with tales of some of my most recent “forecasts” and how they’ve come or are coming to fruition.

First, just under three weeks ago, Chester came clomping up to me on the street and thanked me for helping him get a new job. Chester is a centaur and also an Aquarian, which is an air sign. If you didn’t know any better, you might assume that it’s a water sign. This just proves the intricate and mysterious nature of astrology. It’s exciting, really. So if you weren’t interested before, you should be now. Anyhow, Chester’s horoscope on the day that he applied for that job told him that it was a day to “go forth with confidence and seize opportunities!” So he suited up, picking the most stylish tie that would accent his bare, rippling, muscular chest, and polished his horseshoes to a sheen. And I’ll be damned if he didn’t get that job!

Then, about ten days ago, I received a letter from a hydra, postmarked from the Lake of Lerna. This hydra had been lamenting never being able to find love, given its disagreeable nature and poisonous breath. (The poor creature had to have the letter transcribed by a kind Selkie while in human form, donning a gas mask.) The hydra was a Pisces, which IS a water sign. So go figure. But the thing with those born under the Pisces sign is that they can be very indecisive. In the hydra’s case, this was compounded by having multiple heads. The hydra had recently learned about the option to be a subject in an experimental surgery that could remove the poison from its breath and blood to make it more desirable, or at least not deadly, to others. It was unsure if it wanted to go under the knife. But then, it read in its horoscope that day that it should “go forth with confidence and seize opportunities!” The hydra did just that. And though the poison could not be completely removed, the hydra found love with an itinerant koala whose system that could handle the poison of the eucalyptus made it also able to tolerate the hydra’s reduced toxicity. It’s a classic love story, really. And if that doesn’t pull on your heartstrings, you may be a sociopath. Or a Virgo.

Perhaps you’re still not convinced of my ability to prophesy. Well, I’ve saved the best for last. Just three days ago, I received an email from a banshee named Bertha. She struggled with her role in the world as a loud harbinger of death. She said she didn’t feel it was really in her wheelhouse. Bertha told me she was a quiet and introspective type, an emotional and nurturing creature. Classic Cancer, I thought. Yet, not compelled to leave the comfort of her mother’s womb (also classic Cancer), she was born under the fire sign of Leo. She’d recently been trying to embrace the naturally confident and charismatic nature possessed by Leos. I encouraged her to do just that and shared with her her horoscope for that day, which read, “Go forth with confidence and seize opportunities!” Bertha transformed from a shy wallflower to an emboldened screamer of impending tragedy. It was really beautiful.

So yeah. Writing horoscopes is not just a bunch of hooey. It’s the real deal. I’ve even befriended some of my readers. Bertha is coming by later, in fact. She says she has something she needs to share with me. My gut, which is rarely wrong, tells me it’s gonna be something good.

WRITING PROMPT: You have a job writing horoscopes for mythological creatures.