It's About Time
Second Saturday Scribes tackle a 'timely' subject
The Second Saturday Scribes writing group in Ardmore, OK, tackled the subject of time during a recent workshop, with each participant selecting a writing prompt focusing on different aspects of time.
I wanted to share a few of those here with you all to show how eclectic our little group is. We range in ages from 14-year-olds to (*ahem*) great-grandparents, of all genders. Some are poets, some are script writers, while others lean towards fiction and — in my case in this particular exercise — the just plain “weird.” These stories were written while in class under time constraints (fitting!), so keep that in mind when you realize they were created on the fly with no editing.
Because there are so many to share, I will split them up into a series of posts. You’ll be getting a more-than-usual amount of emails from me in the next few days, but please bear with me. This is a special case and I won’t do this often.
The first story I want to offer was penned by my writing partner and leader of the Triple S group, Joh Mann, based on the prompt, “What time is it?”
“What time is it?” She asked. Her feet shuffled in ill-fitting slippers as she paced back and forth in the holding cell.
“Shut up, you crazy bitch.” The man in the cell nearby laughed. “Time ain’t your friend woman, so you’d best be thinking about sumpthin’ else.”
She sat on the end of her built-in cot. There was only a thin blanket and flat, lifeless pillow on it. Neither provided any comfort. The stainless sink and toilet stood at the end of the cell, quietly judging her. Cold. Emotionless. Uncaring.
For comfort, she quietly hummed an old folk song her grandmother had sang back when they worked in the harvest fields. Those days were hot and dusty, but the work gave them the necessary money they needed to survive over the winter months.
“That’s a purty song, little lady,” came the voice from the next cell. She hated his voice. His laughter. It reminded her of the reason she was here. She wanted to hurt him … to shut his mouth forever and to end his taunting laughter. She felt the rage inside her burning. It started in her chest and spread to her abdomen, making her shake internally. The feeling spread to her extremities and made her anxious to take action. Her mind filled with red fury. She stood up and began to walk to the cell door to tear it from its hinges.
“Where do you think you’re going?” The jailer stood just beyond her reach. He’d learned from his first encounter to avoid her grasping hands. “Sit down. It’s almost time.”
She snapped back to her senses. No memory of her actions in the moments before.
“Did you confess to the priest?” he continued. “Did you say your prayers or whatever it is you do?” He gestured to the locked cell door.
“Confess to killing a rapist? Why would I? I made the world a better place.” She stood back to allow him close enough to open the door.
“Still a killer in the eyes of the law, sister. Now, move it. Your chamber awaits, my lady …”
His snickered laughter was the last thing she heard …
The next was written by Jacob Fuchs, a stranger-turned-friend whom we met one night after play rehearsal. He had just disembarked from a nearby train wearing a poncho and straw fedora, and walked towards us carrying a guitar. After introductions and an impromptu singalong, we invited him to our writers group that weekend and, to our delight, he showed up and wrote with us! His prompt was “The last time.”
“This is the last time the ferry goes to the mainland before the blizzard. Are you sure you don’t want to come with?” said the ferry captain, Tim.
“Oh, I’m sure this isn’t the first storm on the island and won’t be the last,” George said.
Cars honked in the background as people made a mad scramble to get on the ferry. Families tried to corral their children. A woman struggled with five dogs all on a leash, pulling her in different directions.
George said his farewells to the captain and mate and made his way back to his cottage overlooking the art center on Nantucket Island. He could now hear the foghorn blow as the ferry made its way towards Falmouth. He kicked his feet up on the warm wood stove and said, “Now I can get some peace.”
… And then there’s this nonsense that I wrote. No judgements, please. My prompt was “Of all the times for this to happen.”
“Of all the times for this to happen!”
“Just shut up and drive, Jeb!”
The old truck spun wildly in the loose gravel at the side of road. Jeb did his best to hold the vehicle steady as it fishtailed across the buckled asphalt. Eventually, he got it corrected and sped on.
“They’re going to arrest us, for sure!” His friend Jesse wailed as he leaned hard against Jeb’s arm, making steering difficult.
“Nobody’s getting arrested. Calm down.”
“Calm down! Did you not see this? How am I supposed to calm down?”
Jessie stuck his right arm up in front of Jeb. At least, it used to be an arm. What was protruding from his shoulder was now something more akin to the limb of an insect. The dark amber sections folded and unfolded as if they were learning how to move for the first time. The “arm” ended in a fork-like projection, which was waving precariously close to Jeb’s face.
“Get that thing over onto your side! I can’t even see to drive. And I certainly don’t want to lose an eye! How long do we have?”
“I don’t know.”
“Whaddaya mean you don’t know? This has happened before, right?”
“Yessss,” Jesse said sarcastically. “But I don’t exactly remember the details because the next thing to go is usually …”
A weird ripping noise filled the truck cab and Jeb suddenly found himself covered in blood and viscera and … was that brain matter? Jeb gagged as he wiped his face with his sleeve.
He looked over at Jesse for some semblance of explanation and instead found himself looking straight into the compound eyes of the largest arthropod he’d ever seen in his life, staring at a slime-coated head and thorax now emerging from Jesse’s shoulders. Jeb let out a blood-curdling scream so high that only dogs could hear it.
“What the hell, Jess??? What the hell?”
The thing that was Jesse just waved its antennae as the rest of his skin began to slough off onto the cracked leather seats of the truck.
“You’re right, buddy. They’ll arrest us for sure!”
Yeah … I apologize for that last one.
Stay tuned for more “timely” stories from some of our other members.
Write On!
I love the concept of a writer's group! I would like to send you something, if that is OK with the group. (Not $ - but a poem that Nick wrote. No apologies needed for the alien take-over needed. Half the stuff you see streaming is just as "weird. 🤗