In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.
Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.
Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!
http://writeworld.tumblr.com/post/98143751043/if-misery-could-manifest-itself-into-household-objects
~~~~~~
“If misery could manifest itself
into household objects, it would most certainly be a cheap Australian boxed
wine,” she announced as she waved the large but currently close to empty wine
glass around.
“Cask,” he corrected.
“What?”
“Australians call them wine casks,
not wine boxes.”
“Oh... do I care?”
“Probably not.” He studied her
while she was not looking at him. She had knocked on his door; very late and
already very drunk. She insisted on more wine even though he was seriously
waiting for her to throw up. Or fall asleep. Teary and emotional, she explained
that she had been stood up and she was not happy about it. “And besides,” he
added, “misery is more likely to be concentrated on the sofa.”
“Huh... maybe. The hours spent
alone mainlining some TV series that just lets you down when they won’t let the
characters you totally ship together be together.”
“Yeah. Or they cancel it and the
last episode finished on a cliff-hanger.”
“Ugh... never to be resolved. Hate
that.” She waved the empty glass at him.
He stood, grabbed both glasses and
refilled them from the cask. “You are really verbose when you’re drunk.”
“I forgot to eat,” she said as if
that explained it and reached out to take the glass he passed to her. She
started spouting off about her personal theory of Lost and how the writers of
Teen Wolf should be pegged out on an anthill.
She was halfway through the glass,
when she fell asleep. He rescued it from her hand. “He was a dick to stand you
up,” he told her. “You are better off without him.”
Grabbing the throw from the back
of the sofa, he spread it over her. He bent down to tuck it in and heard her
mutter, “I ship us... you know?”
He blinked at her, not sure that
he had heard her correctly. “Rose?” he asked but a snore was his only reply.
He brushed her cheek with the back
of his finger. He secretly loved the way she came to him when she was hurt or
upset. He was her best friend, and terrified of losing that, he had never asked
her out or tried to kiss her. Maybe he should. But not yet; tomorrow he would be
the solicitous best friend who would drag her hung-over butt out for a greasy
full breakfast and then lie on the grass at the park and commiserate over her
bad dating habits. And maybe... after another day or so, he could just suggest
that they should go out with each other.
Sounded like a plan. He patted the
wine cask where it sat on the top of the microwave. “Thanks,” he told it.
“She’s wrong. Tonight you manifested honesty, not misery.”
~~~~
© AM Gray 2014
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