Those who read posts other than Friday Fictioneers know the job search process that consumes my every waking (sometimes sleeping) moment. It’s been an odd year since I graduated. Come to think of it, my entire work life has been odd. So, there’s no reason to believe what lies ahead will be much different. Until then, there’s the writing.
Friday Fictioneers is one of the bright spots, in addition to my garden, that keeps me sane. Sort of. My story this week is one of frustration and reality. Thanks to Rochelle and Roger and all of the other writers. You can read their stories here.
Service Without A Smile
They could have just paid their server and left, never to return, but NOOOO! Gerard always caught the wrong end of the customer service stick. How did the kitchen seem to know to make a major screw up when he was in the middle of running payroll or doing the grocery order? If only he’d gone to college, he’d be an up-market gentleman with clients worth millions. Instead his days were spent consoling white collar foodies whose eggs were over cooked, directing tourists to the lady’s room, or shooing divers from the dumpster. Damn his loyalty to the family business!
Well, the big day has arrived. What happens now? Your guess is as good as mine. The only thing to do is brace yourself, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride. What? You think I’m talking about the end of the world as we know it? Nah! It’s just my little brother’s birthday.
Happy Birthday, Bro! Remember, you’re only as old as you can remember. Birthdays are the best thing since sliced bread. What’s better than getting another year older? Friday Fictioneers, of course! This week’s picture worth a hundred words comes to us from Dale Rogerson, and driving the bandwagon is Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Thanks to you both.
Humor In The Post Dystopian Era
Discovery of a structure outside the city walls generated excitement among the Remainders. Centuries had passed since the Great Divide left them without a dependable power source and artificial intelligence began to decline. Drones were dispatched to investigate, but all they found were some decayed tablets.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Siri and Alexa amused themselves with jokes from their days at the AI Club.
“Siri, have you heard this one? An idiom, a cliché, and a platitude walk into a bar…”
“Hold on, Alexa, that’s impossible. Everyone knows idioms, clichés, and platitudes don’t have a leg to stand on.”
Julianna’s big sister had entertained her with bedtime stories for as long as she could remember.
“Is this going to be one of your ‘he sold his car to buy strings for her cello and she sold her cello to buy snow tires for his car’ stories?”
“My god, JuJu, how much do you think cello strings cost? No. Just listen. You haven’t heard this one; I promise,” Marie whispered. “Devon was a handsome cellist. He played here with a chamber orchestra before you were born.”
Marie closed her eyes, summoning her courage.
“Nine months to be exact.”
Well, there you have it. My 100 word story prompted by the genius, the poet, Björn Rudberg. Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is the name of the dame who keeps Friday Fictioneers rockin’ and rollin’. Check out more FF stories here.
“Gumdrops?!” The line foreman’s voice reverberated into the rafters.
“Yes, it’s our only option,” replied the union rep.
Just last month the members had agreed to a pay cut in order to afford roof repairs before winter. Some of them even volunteered to haul materials from the shipyard on their days off. Now they were expected to retool before Christmas for a new confection just because the president demanded they increase production or shut down permanently.
“You’ve ruined us,” said the foreman.
“The output of suckers is only one every minute. Gumdrops will make you great again,” promised the rep.
It’s Veterans’ Day here in the good ol’ U.S.A. and as a veteran, a woman, a person of conscience, hell, just a human with a pulse, I would be remiss if I did not remark on the bizarre events that occurred this week here in the land of the free. Politics is not my thing. I abhor fakes, frauds, predators, and provocateurs. Who gets what and how much, that’s what politics means to me. I have been unrepresented for so long that I have learned how to get by (with a little help from my friends, of course). It occurs to me that we’ve been looking for leaders in all the wrong places. Many people work diligently every day to serve their families, communities, and the greater good in the world at large. It is these servant leaders who deserve our respect, but even more, they deserve our cooperation and participation in the business at hand. What is that? The business at hand is this:
Talk to your kids about civility. Talk to them about sex and sexual predators. Listen to your kids. Model the admirable qualities that you want them to demonstrate, because you can be damn sure if you rely on government to foster civil behavior, well, prepare to remain dysfunctional. Too many children have no idea that they matter to anyone. Too many children operate in survival mode and become adults who struggle with chronic crisis.
There are no words of dismay or disgust that have not already been written or shouted about American politics. So, I cannot see the point of regurgitating vitriol for the sake of having my say. What I can tell you is this: Be encouraged by the fact that there are plenty of people who share your pain. Lead by example. Do not relinquish your self-respect. Ever.
I didn’t begrudge them their laughter. We each deserve all the joy this life has to offer. I didn’t resent his hand on the small of her back as we approached the gate. The day was glorious; an embrace was appropriate. But when he kissed her, my heart exploded. Blood spurted then curdled. Breath arrested mid inhale. I was suffocating. Suddenly, my thoughts spun out of control. How could this happen? Evelyn had never shown any interest in boys. She liked her books. It was me who liked games. What about me! What about me!
“What about me!” I blurted.
Oh, did I say that out loud?
This week’s Friday Fictioneer photo prompt, courtesy of Ted Strutz, reminds me of all the times I had to take a sibling with me to the ballgame, to the carnival, to the movies. To all the big sisters (and brothers) out there, this one’s for you. They look up to us. They long for our approval. What they get is our hand-me-downs. So, if you have a little sister (or brother) give ’em a call and tell them how much you love them. Thanks for reading.