Thursday July 7th, 2016

The exercise:

Write about: the police officer.

Lineup at the door of the bakery this morning. 45 minutes of madness followed. By the end of it we were sold out of cinnamon buns (all 80 that were made this morning) and most of everything else, really. We ended up closing up around noon because there were only a few slices of carrot cake left as far as baked goods went.

I'm so glad I don't work Saturdays, which is easily the busiest day of the week there.

Max and I took a drive to Cawston this afternoon to visit the chicken farm of a fellow farmers market vendor. We stocked up on whole frozen chickens and picked up 4 dozen eggs as well. Before we hit the road for home Corey let us check out the chickens, which Max got a real kick out of.

Even with skipping the market this weekend there are blackberries to be picked, so I'll be doing that tomorrow morning. We'll see how many I get and then figure out where they're going (I suspect that at least some will be eaten fresh and frozen and made into jam).

Mine:

He protects his community
As best he can,
Even though all the kids just
Call him The Man -
Just an authority figure,
Never their friend.
A sometimes useful tool,
A means to an end.

He's never drawn his weapon
And hopes he never does.
He keeps his cool when they
Call him Pig or The Fuzz.
He walks his beat in the heat
And in the cold;
He cannot be bought or bribed
With sex, drugs, or gold.

He's a good, true man
Who does his best,
One small part of a team
Who outshines the rest.
They know his face all
Around this town -
So please tell me why you
Want to shoot him down?

Thursday February 3rd, 2011

The exercise:

Write something that takes place at: the police station.

Hopefully that's one place we won't be visiting.

Note: I'm away on my honeymoon so this is a scheduled post.

Mine:

The man enters the station, removes his sunglasses, and looks around. His lips curl into a grimace when he spots the half-empty box of donuts on the front counter.

"Way to promote that stereotype, boys," he mutters.

He approaches the desk, his teeth squeezing the life out of an innocent piece of gum, and stares at the officer seated there. She is on the phone, speaking in short, urgent whispers. When the man opens his mouth she holds up a hand to stall him.

"Sorry about that," she tells him after hanging up three minutes later. "What can I -"

"I'm here to bail out my son."

"Ah, you must be Mister -"

"Just take my money and get me my boy," he says, pulling out his cheque book.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, sir."

"Why." It was not a question, but a challenge. A dare.

"He escaped about twenty minutes ago. But if you don't mind waiting a bit, I'm sure our boys will have him rounded up shortly."

The man blinks once, puts away his cheques, puts on his sunglasses, spins on his heel, and leaves the station. If he finds his son first, he thinks, that would save everyone a lot of trouble.

Well, everyone except his son.