“Where’s your purse?” Jack poked me and gave me that hard stare. “What you got left?”
“Tuppence.”
“Give us it!”
“It’s for a bulls eye.” I said
“If you don’t hand it over I’ll thump you.”
I got a black eye and a bulls eye.
Showing posts with label Prompt 3. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Prompt 3. Show all posts
Sunday, 16 June 2019
Write-In 2019: 'The Trip' by Grace Palmer
The corner shop was too risky, so she walked the mile and a half into the shopping centre. Rain threatened, but that was an advantage, hoodie-wise. The security guard, diamond stud earring, penchant for pigeon-like clothes, keys on a chain, chatted to the guy in the key-grinders.
She tried to slow down, not a dawdle like the rest of them, but not the junkie-run. It was all for Shainey.
Shainey fiddled with her plaits when she was hungry, had brought another letter home last night. She ought to be grateful to that teacher, giving Shainey shoes and cleaning Shainey’s clothes when the washing-machine broke down. They were saving the planet anyway, with one wash a week, previous.
That teacher had found her in the playground, whispered in that way of hers, ‘ I understand, but if you could see your way to-’
Shainey had been nagging, had gone through the purse last night for trip money, that’s what did it, not some teacher barely older than she was.
In Wilco’s musak played and the lights were too bright and revealing. She trekked back to Superdrug, felt more at home, quickly found what she wanted. High priced, small, wanted. Condoms, decent mascara, face cream and lippie (mad, the price of it.) Sleight of hand, in the pocket and away, fists bunched tight. That purse would be refilled. Shainey would go on her trip with the best of them, head held high.
She tried to slow down, not a dawdle like the rest of them, but not the junkie-run. It was all for Shainey.
Shainey fiddled with her plaits when she was hungry, had brought another letter home last night. She ought to be grateful to that teacher, giving Shainey shoes and cleaning Shainey’s clothes when the washing-machine broke down. They were saving the planet anyway, with one wash a week, previous.
That teacher had found her in the playground, whispered in that way of hers, ‘ I understand, but if you could see your way to-’
Shainey had been nagging, had gone through the purse last night for trip money, that’s what did it, not some teacher barely older than she was.
In Wilco’s musak played and the lights were too bright and revealing. She trekked back to Superdrug, felt more at home, quickly found what she wanted. High priced, small, wanted. Condoms, decent mascara, face cream and lippie (mad, the price of it.) Sleight of hand, in the pocket and away, fists bunched tight. That purse would be refilled. Shainey would go on her trip with the best of them, head held high.
Write-In 2019: 'Did I Ever Return NBA Jam to Blockbuster?' by Justin Troutman
Did I Ever Return NBA Jam to Blockbuster?
There it was, emerging from the bottom of a cacophony of junk in a cardboard box from Home Depot. The tealest of teal. Electric teal. For the first time since sometime in the early 1990s, I immediately recognized the corner of my old Jordache wallet. Me, a modern day archaeologist, surveyed the finding of something lost.
My aural senses were jostled by the staticky crackling of the Velcro enclosure, as I separated both sides from their decades-long slumber. I wondered if Father Time had collected interest on all of these years, and deposited it here for me to find. I'd soon find out.
With patient thumbs, I slowly pulled apart the lone pocket and peered inside. No green. Cue the first sigh. But wait, there was something. Long. Rectangular. White. Something printed on it. I reached in and slowly removed it, like some brittle artifact moments from disintegration.
I read the topmost text. "Blockbuster Video". I couldn't believe it. It was a receipt from Blockbuster. But wait. Did I ever return NBA Jam? Have they been the ones looking to collect interest on all of these years? I crammed the receipt back into the wallet and tossed it into the box. Deep breaths. You'll be okay. Blockbuster went out of business years ago.
Blockbuster… went… out of business… years ago.
Nostalgia tastes so much like saline.
There it was, emerging from the bottom of a cacophony of junk in a cardboard box from Home Depot. The tealest of teal. Electric teal. For the first time since sometime in the early 1990s, I immediately recognized the corner of my old Jordache wallet. Me, a modern day archaeologist, surveyed the finding of something lost.
My aural senses were jostled by the staticky crackling of the Velcro enclosure, as I separated both sides from their decades-long slumber. I wondered if Father Time had collected interest on all of these years, and deposited it here for me to find. I'd soon find out.
With patient thumbs, I slowly pulled apart the lone pocket and peered inside. No green. Cue the first sigh. But wait, there was something. Long. Rectangular. White. Something printed on it. I reached in and slowly removed it, like some brittle artifact moments from disintegration.
I read the topmost text. "Blockbuster Video". I couldn't believe it. It was a receipt from Blockbuster. But wait. Did I ever return NBA Jam? Have they been the ones looking to collect interest on all of these years? I crammed the receipt back into the wallet and tossed it into the box. Deep breaths. You'll be okay. Blockbuster went out of business years ago.
Blockbuster… went… out of business… years ago.
Nostalgia tastes so much like saline.
Write-In 2019: 'The Day I Ate Like a King' by Amy Barnes
All our money smelled like Folgers. While I hated paying with coffee can money, I loved sticking my head into the can to inhale the bitter bean scent. It was a better smell than the usual combination of sour baby spit-up, on-the-edge of rotten food out of the unmarked cans at Food Mart and no-showers-since-Sunday.
I knew not to ask for anything if the can was close to empty. That meant groceries were more important than baseball gloves or shoes. Or daddy’s pocket dollars smelled more like Wild Turkey than usual.
“There’s no bread for lunch.”
Mama reached into the can and handed me the two quarters I needed for a reduced fee lunch at Margaret Mitchell Elementary.
“I didn’t make it to the store.”
“Is it my birthday?” I asked.
Those two quarters bought a feast of room temperature milk, mystery meat and grainy mashed potatoes served up with lunch lady pity.
“Enjoy lunch. Don’t miss the bus.”
I ran the two blocks to the school bus, my stomach growling in anticipation of a hot school lunch. I was rich with my two quarters.
At lunch time, I avoided the Tobler brothers who would think nothing of stealing my lunch money.
Blue jello in plastic cups awaited. There was no mystery meat. It was corn dog day.
“Here’s an extra corn dog.”
The lunch lady who looked like my imaginary grandmother plopped an extra corn dog on my tray. I handed over the quarters. The smell of coffee mixed with corn dogs. I huddled at a table alone to eat my lunch.
By the time I got home, there was no dinner and no mama. I heard her come home around midnight to drop two more quarters in the can. I could still taste coffee scented corn dog.
Write-In 2019: 'The Perfect Purple Purse' by Lynda McMahon
The purse was purple suede. Sensuous. Aesthetically pleasing. Large enough for notes, coins, keys and keepsakes. Small enough to fit in her handmade macrame bag. She loved that purse. It contained all that mattered to her: a gold cross (no chain), a medal of Mary the Immaculate blessed by the parish priest and given to her by her Catholic granny, a few coins. Coins hidden, saved, forbidden. No keys. He had the only one.
She carried the purse with her. Got it out on buses for her allocated pennies. The fare to work and back. Or almost. She had to walk part of the way to save money. She didn’t mind. Much. He didn’t need bus fare.
The purse pretended with her. It was a fine item. It looked like it would have plenty in it. Enough to eat, to ride on buses, to go wherever she wanted. In her fantasies she and her beautiful purse led a life of comfort, freedom and security. Eventually he stopped giving her any money at all. She could only travel with him.
“You don’t need money when you’re with me,” he claimed. “I’ll look after you always.”
She had to ask him for everything because he liked it that way. He gave or didn’t give as he saw fit. Once he’d given her gifts. A store voucher with which she’d bought her perfect purple purse.
She left it behind with him.
She carried the purse with her. Got it out on buses for her allocated pennies. The fare to work and back. Or almost. She had to walk part of the way to save money. She didn’t mind. Much. He didn’t need bus fare.
The purse pretended with her. It was a fine item. It looked like it would have plenty in it. Enough to eat, to ride on buses, to go wherever she wanted. In her fantasies she and her beautiful purse led a life of comfort, freedom and security. Eventually he stopped giving her any money at all. She could only travel with him.
“You don’t need money when you’re with me,” he claimed. “I’ll look after you always.”
She had to ask him for everything because he liked it that way. He gave or didn’t give as he saw fit. Once he’d given her gifts. A store voucher with which she’d bought her perfect purple purse.
She left it behind with him.
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