Reddit writing prompt: a time traveler and an immortal keep bumping into each other across the ages.
I stepped out into the early morning fog and inhaled deeply; The thick smell of green, growing things was achingly familiar. It had been a long time since I had been home. Or at least, a long time since I had been close enough to in time and space to recognize the geolocation I called “home.” Although the landscape itself never changed, although the rolling hills and pecan trees would ever remain the same, the buildings changed drastically over the last few hundred years.
Writing prompt for today! This is a very first draft of an idea I got from a joke post on Facebook today. It said "I caught a terrorist, said no TSA agent ever." It made me laugh, and then I began to wonder what they were doing if they weren't catching criminals...
I collected the notes.
It was probably against TSA guidelines, but I had always collected them. From the day we were instated in this lonely airport. As a small interchange near Wichita, we saw very little traffic, but the TSA rules still applied to us. I was hired to rifle through everyone's belongings.
Our airport has three runways and caters to only two companies. We also host airshows and hot air balloon races in the summer time. There are only two TSA agents that work here. Currently that's me, Roger Felter, and my newest assistant, a college-age girl named Sindi. It's a pleasure to meet you.
One of the biggest rules we have here at Millatocka Airport is that we are entrusted with people's things. Therefore, taking anything out of suitcases to keep is a breech of trust.
The first time I took something from a passenger's suitcase was in 2003.
I had been working my shift, forcing passengers to remove their shoes for almost two years. I dug through a lady's bag. She had clothing, and a few essentials; it looked to be a quick trip. I had a habit of making up little stories for each of the flyers; for example, one man was on his way home for the holidays, but he and his mother were the only surviving relatives. That's why he only had one gift in his bag. Or this woman was a clown that danced for foster children to cheer them up and that's why she had magic tricks in her bag. Everyone had a story, and I got to peek at them.
This woman, however, told me her story. I didn't have to guess at it.
Dear TSA agent: She wrote, her handwriting very shaky. I have a condition that keeps me from doing a lot of manual tasks with my hands. My daughter wrapped this present for my nephew for me, but she left the edges undone so you could check what is inside. Please do not rip the wrapping paper, or I won't be able to fix it myself. Thank you for your understanding.
I glanced over at the woman, being helped from her wheelchair by my assistant at the time. She look to be in her late thirties and was shaking fiercely, and all of her concentration was on standing still while they set her in an airport-supplied wheelchair.
I very carefully checked the present, careful not to disturb the wrapping paper.
I tucked the note into my pocket, and wrote my own. Here. I tried my hardest not to disturb the wrapping paper, but I tore it a little. I have taped it closed for you, so you don't have to do it yourself.
By Tuesday, I had forgotten about the woman in the wheelchair, but she hadn't forgotten about me. I had become famous overnight on social media, the woman in the wheelchair passing around the story of my kindness. I'd gotten several thousand likes and the picture finally made its way to my page. A coworker had shared it with me, saying she bet that it was me who had been so kind to the lady in the wheelchair. I found out then her name was Karen.
I stared at it, disbelieving. Then I smiled. I couldn't stop smiling for days.
The week afterward, as I dug through another trunk from another passenger, I found another note. My mother has MS, kind TSA agent, and your understanding of Karen's disability brought tears to my eyes. I wish there were more people like you. This is for you, Roger.
I pulled the note from the bag, reverently, and put it in my pocket. I glanced at the woman who left it for me, and she was smiling at me. I smiled in return, feeling the weight of her note in my pocket.
This would not be the last note that was left for me.
I have collected hundreds of notes over the years. People leaving little thoughts and prayers. It became a tradition, leaving all of these notes. And I kept every single one of them.
Writer's Write had a prompt a while ago, and I've been wanting to write about it. http://writers-write-creative-blog.posthaven.com/daily-writing-prompt
"Jackie, watch this!" Kelly squealed, playfully, running to climb onto the bridge bars. Jackie caught up with her, pulling her off of the safety railings.
"Get off of there, young lady; your mother will kill me if you end up falling off of this bridge." And she didn't doubt it either. Built like a tank mated with a bear, Kelly's mother was burly and one of the scariest things Jackie had ever seen. She brushed the tops of door frames with her 1980s larger-than-life, hairspray up dos, and her make up looked like a drag queen on steroids. The whole effect was rainbow scary like a clown with a really big grin on its face.
Jackie had never much liked working for Kelly's mother. Kelly was one of the best behaved little girls she had ever sitted for, but her mother was frightening. Jackie couldn't bring herself to quit; Kelly's mom was just way too intimidating. "What do you mean?" Kelly asked, her voice tripping up a little over a gap between her teeth. "My mom totally let's me climb on railings." Kelly was a very intense child, and she put a lot of emphasis unnecessarily on certain words in her sentences. Jackie found it endearing mostly, but right now it was anything but cute.
"Come on, kiddo. It's time to get home and start your homework."
"But I hate homework!" She groaned in response.
Based on a writing prompt from my writer's group on Facebook; it was "My mother always wanted me to ___, but my father always told me to be __________."
My father always wanted me to make something of myself. I don't think he cared much for what I would be, only that I was the best at it. I could have been a circus clown, just so long as I was the best circus clown there had ever been.
Every night at dinner, my father would sit, several feet away, reading his newspaper in silence. He was dressed to the nines, even at dinner, his tie pressed up against his neck like an exaggerated Adam's apple. His hair was neat, trimmed, and clean. Father always spoke like he was talking through ice; his voice was bitter cold and precise. "What did you do today to further your goals, my daughter?"
He always called me that. "My daughter." Like he'd forgotten my name. Maybe he had. "I researched some local internships for fashion design that high schoolers can do over the summer." I told him, weakly. "There aren't any in the area, so I started looking for internships outside of the area, that have free housing." I crossed my fingers that he wouldn't look into it himself. There were internships in the area, but she didn't want to stay here for the summer, with this ice sculpture of a father. "There are three that look like they may be acceptable. I've started filling out applications, but I have sent the information on them over to your computer, so I can get your input before I turn in my applications." Another lie. I hadn't bothered to start them. I was pretty sure my father would shoot down all three of them. He always shot down the first three suggestions out of spite, presumably to make me do more research. I had three other, better suggestions waiting in the wings.
"We'll see," he said, with finality. There was no point talking anymore in his direction; he was done listening to me for the day. So I ate the rest of my dinner in silence and then waited patiently to be dismissed. I shuffled up to my room.
My father wanted me to to be the best at whatever I did, but my mother had always just wanted me to be happy. I laid down on my bed, closing my eyes and trying to remember the details of my mother's face. I couldn't remember every line of it, but I remembered the fuzzy outline of her. And I remembered her voice. "I just want you to be happy." She'd say.
"I can't be happy without you, mum." I whispered into the dusky light of my room.
A writing prompt for September 8th, 2014. The prompt was "A menacing storm rolled into town..."
A storm had rolled into town sometime during the night. It had wavered across the farms, uprooting trees and shouting its drunken thoughts. It had stumbled across the cape, only to pass out across the roof of old Billy's farm. The storm snored loudly, scaring the wits out of the cattle as it slept. I could hear them crying over the swirl of the storm.
I stood there, watching the storm, wondering exactly what I could do about it. A hungover storm was not something I was quite prepared to handle; I had gotten my license about three weeks ago, and had yet to deal with a storm quite this rowdy. The academy had supplied me with a field reference guide, but the chapter on dealing with storms with all three sheets to the wind was horrifyingly inadequate.
Billy stood next to me, looking a little impatient. He was trying hard to hide it; I think he had a pretty good idea of how difficult storm wrangling was, but he wanted this squall off of his barn so he could get to his cattle. I desperately wished none had died of fright.
I stared at the page in my manual, willing it to hold more information. When my wishes didn't produce any more words on the page, I slammed it shut. Although I hadn't spent one minute inside of a church in the past seventeen years, I tried my hand at praying anyway. Maybe, out of the multitude of gods available, one of them would take a little pity on a very green storm wrangler who was having to deal with a storm who was starting to look at little green around the gills.
I quickly changed my prayer, hoping against hope the storm wouldn't puke. It was the only thing that could make this afternoon worse, I was sure. Then I would have to deal with a drunk storm and a flash flood. Probably also a handful of recently drowned cow corpses.
As I stepped forward, my Wellies squelching very unprofessionally in the mud, I began to hate my job.
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