Monday November 24th, 2014

The exercise:

Write about: the twitch.

Not the greatest of days. Things kind of went off the rails around lunchtime between me and Max, a delightful combination of tiredness, overstimulation, and a two year old trying to assert his will. Once I eventually got him out of the house to spend some time in town things improved significantly, but it wasn't a particularly fun stretch.

He's sleeping soundly now though, and I'm enjoying sitting by the fire and trying to come up with a writing prompt and what to write for it. Well, not especially enjoying the coming up with the prompt part.

Something is bound to come to me eventually. It always does.

Ah, there we go. Thanks, random muscle that won't stop twitching for no apparent reason.


The spasm in her leg was driving her crazy, one twitch at a time. She felt as though everyone in the room was aware of it - indeed it must have been impossible to miss - and they were all struggling mightily to refrain from commenting.

Or laughing.

It wasn't even occurring at regular intervals. If that had been the case she could have at least braced herself each time it came back around. But no, it would go off three times in a row before going silent for nearly a minute. Then once, a ten second break, again, twenty second reprieve, one more time.

She knew that if it went on much longer she would crack a tooth or burst a blood vessel. Perhaps, she thought as she eyed the office supplies that lay within reach, I can just cut it off. It would have to stop then, right?

Then again... probably not.


Greg said...

Poor Marc, that doesn't sound like a fun day for you. But they happen and the best thing you can do is learn from them and hope that with your new knowledge you can avoid the worst of it happening again :)
Heh, you should catch-up with comments, that will help you think of a prompt for the writing! Still, this isn't a bad one, though I suspect it's letting out some residual frustration you've had with the day. Amputation using office supplies though... let me test that out on some of my colleagues and I'll tell you if it's as hard as I suspect it is.

The twitch
There was a huge billboard in Grover's field, currently advertising surgical trusses and tools. The billboard had been there for nearly forty years, a large wooden construction that townsfolk gossiped had only been put there because Old Man Grover was senile when they asked him. He'd had himself buried at the foot of it too, which looked like an act of spite to some.
At the moment though, instead of pennies and edelweiss scattered on his grave (Old Woman Grover looked to be going just as senile), there was a beaten up Dodge, its bonnet rumpled and the engine smoking, leaking oil and gas all over the soil. It had crashed into the supporting leg of the billboard, going thankfully slow over the lumpy, iron-hard ground after leaving the road. Behind it, sirens still going full blast, a police-car drew to a halt.
The driver's door of the Dodge swung open, a grinding screech managing to drown out even the siren for a moment, and a scruffy young man in a houndstooth-check suit hauled himself out. He shook his head, looked around, and ran away. For about a yard and a half when his left leg seemed to seize up and he fell over.
Officer James McCallen, on his third day of his new job, leapt eagerly from the police car, raced over, and dropped himself onto the prone young man like a WWE wrestler. There was the oofing sound of air forced out of lungs, and moments later the retching sound of a breathless man trying to be sick.
"You're the twitch!" said McCallen, driving an elbow into the man's kidneys. "You're nicked!"
There was a pause of a couple of minutes while he stopped throwing up and got his breath back, but finally the man spoke.
"What's a twitch?"
"You are," said McCallen. "You're the guy who informs on people. You tell people things they shouldn't know."
"Not me," said the young man. He coughed, spitting blood.
"Yeah you are," said McCallen, but some of the bravado had left his voice now. "It's on the paperwork."
"Not me," said the man.
McCallen sighed, and fished in his pockets for the docket. It was mixed in with receipts from the dog-track and a greasy McDonald's wrapper, but it was there. He brandished it in front of the young man.
"That says I'm a twitcher," said the man. "That's a bird-watcher."
McCallen pulled the papers back and stared at it, his face fallen in dismay. Then the turned the page over and checked the back. A smile rose again like sunrise.
"It also says you're behind on your alimony," he said, and the young man beneath him groaned.

morganna said...

Twitch, twitch ...
I don't know why
The whole group
Can possible be staring at my

Marc said...

Greg - I'll be honest, I've given the scissor treatment some serious thought at various points in my life. Just cut off that super tight shoulder muscle and I won't have to deal with it anymore...

I like Officer McCallen's enthusiasm, and his ability to find a reason to justify his actions :)

Morganna - heh, a neat little acrostic is always a welcome sight from you :)