Monday April 30th, 2018

The exercise:

Write about: learning to fly.

No special themes this week, just a bunch of random prompts. Enjoy the return to... normal?


Greg said...

The nice thing about trying to continue other stories is that occasionally I find things I'd promised to continue and haven't so far. Like this. So without further ado, let's hear from Cincinnati.

Learning to fly
"Sin? As in, short for Cindy? That's a stripper name, love!"
The punch was loud enough to turn every head in the waiting room, and the grey-stubbled man with the red-veined nose behind the booking counter staggered to the side and knocked his chair over. He struggled to keep his balance but failed, and collapsed in a heap, tangling his legs with those of the chair. It looked uncomfortable.
"It's not short for Cindy. And I'm not a stripper."
Heads turned back to old magazines (Top Gear, FHM and Psychology Today mostly, dog-eared at the corners and torn on random pages) and the man behind the booking counter picked himself up and righted the chair with a clatter. He rubbed his jaw, and this time stayed well back from the counter.
"Short for Cynthia then?" He paused, and Cin could see his eyes dart to the side as he thought of something else he thought was witty. For a moment she thought he was going to manage self-control, but he disappointed her. "Like, Madame Sin, amiright?"
Cin picked up the ring-for-attention bell on the counter and threw it like a Major-League pitcher. It dinged brightly as it bounced off the man's forehead, and he toppled over backwards like a chainsawed tree.
"Dang all y'all to heck and back," muttered a voice from the back room. "What are all y'all doin' in there? There's such a ruckus that I can't hear myself slurp these noodles." A much older man shuffled out, a paper bowl of ramen in one hand and a carving fork in the other. "Harold? What'n tarnation are y'all doin' down there on the floor? I tol' y'all sixteen times now, there's no see-ess-ta here in Floriddy."
"He got my name wrong," said Cin. "Twice."
"Well fine, missy," said the old man. He set the bowl of noodles down on the chest of the man on the floor and shuffled to the counter. "What's all y'all name then?"
The old man sighed. "Now looky-see missy, this here FCC-form don't like no nicky-names nor familiarities. Y'all gotta give me your full name or y'all don't get to go."
There was a frosty pause, and finally Cin said, "Cincinnati."
"Jiminy, the Be Great state," said the old man. "I went there once on a sex-tourism ex-cur-see-own. But I didn't like the lobster. Right missy, before you can learn to fly we need some more details for this here paperwork. The next question's a bit sensitive for some folks, so we phrase it a mite oddly, but you'll handle it I think. Tell me, missy, do you weigh more or less than a full grown Newfoundland?"

Marc said...

Greg - ah, I do appreciate you bringing this back around. I like Cincinnati a lot :)

Monica Manning said...

Greg: If only we could disclose our weight in comparison to a full grown Newfoundland. At least I can say I'm not as hairy.

Marc: I have returned, the prodigal writer. My piece is a little 'colourful', so I didn't want to post it on your blog (instead, provided the bitlink:

Marc said...

Monica - welcome back! So good to hear from you again :)

Hah, that's a fun take on the prompt. Feels pretty realistic too, actually...