This prompt sounds fun. Hopefully, I can do it justice.
The Prompt: Write a story or scene in which one or more of the characters knows that they are in a story. How long have they known? Do they care?
If you want, take it a step further: The narrator absolutely hates one of the characters.
I have one item. One. Just a paring knife. The one I had broke right in the middle of cutting potatoes for my stew. My hyper-critical mother is coming for a visit, and dinner must be promptly at 6. It cannot be late and it cannot be burned.
The Prompt: Write a story or scene in which one or more of the characters knows that they are in a story. How long have they known? Do they care?
If you want, take it a step further: The narrator absolutely hates one of the characters.
Source: Writers Digest
My response:
Stewing in the Checkout Line
Yet I'm stuck in the only open line at the grocery store behind a lady with a binder full of coupons and a cart spilling over with cans of biscuits and processed lunch meats and cereals and juice boxes.
"Oh crap!" I mumble when I see how much she has. The lady looks at me briefly.
Why am I behind this crazy couponer? Because some wannabe writer without a day job made it so. Hey writer, can't you open up another line? The one next to the magazine rack would work. Or how about you write in one of those self checkouts?
Why am I behind this crazy couponer? Because some wannabe writer without a day job made it so. Hey writer, can't you open up another line? The one next to the magazine rack would work. Or how about you write in one of those self checkouts?
"Just one cart today, Ms. Holly?" the teen running the register says with a smile.
"Oh, I'm running out of room," Ms. Holly says as she puts groceries on the belt. "If I buy too much, Stan will have to give up his 'man cave.'" The two laugh as they discuss how she could gradually take it over so that Stan won't notice until it's too late.
And of course, while they visit, the clerk stops scanning her groceries and the woman stops loading and starts grouping items. Her cart is still at least three-fourths full. I left the stew simmering, thinking this would be a short trip to the store. It shouldn't have taken more than five minutes, tops.
Hey, writer, couldn't you have made her one of those nice people who say, "You have just one thing, why don't you go first?"
I huff to let them know I'm getting tired of waiting while they chit-chat. I think I might've seen Ms. Holly twitch a little. Good, I think, maybe she'll feel guilty and try to speed things up, but she makes no move to start placing her groceries on the belt again.
The clerk slowly resumes scanning as their conversation switches to the weather. The conveyor belt inches forward and stops again. Ms. Holly starts thumbing through her binder. I am raging inside.
"Get your groceries on the belt!" I think and huff again. Dinner will be ruined if I don't get back home soon.
And you, reader, I'm sure you're all snug in your bed with a bunch of pillows propping you up, huh? How about you whip out your phone and fire off an email to the writer. Let her know my stew could be burning.
Their conversation continues. Now they're talking about Grant Rickman closing his hardware store.
"Times are hard," the clerk says, shaking his head as he drags another can across the scanner.
"Wait, wait, wait," Ms. Holly says. "Those pork 'n' beans are supposed to be on sale for 25 cents."
The clerk stops scanning, pushes buttons on the monitor as he squints at the screen, and says, "This rang them at 75 cents. Are you sure they're on sale?"
"I NEVER forget a sale price," she says.
The clerk walks over to a rack full of sales fliers, grabs one and comes back to his register. He starts thumbing through, looking for the canned goods.
"I don't see it," he says.
"There's no way I got that wrong," Ms. Holly says, agitated.
"I'm sorry," the clerk says, "I'm just not seeing it."
"Then get me the manager," Ms. Holly says, "I know what I saw! If you'd —"
"Holy hell!" I scream. "I've been in this line for 15 minutes trying to buy just one thing."
"You're awfully rude," Ms. Holly says, turning and glaring at me.
Before I know it, I've ripped my knife from its packaging and lunged at her. I step back and see it wobbling in Ms. Holly's flabby bicep while she wails.
"Oh my god," the clerk yells as he backs up.
The manager arrives and tells the clerk to call 911, then he runs over to me and pins my arms behind my back.
"Ow," I say. "Let me go!"
"You're not going anywhere until the police get here," he says.
Thanks a lot, writer. Now my stew's going to burn for sure.
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