Writing Prompt: Day 130

130.jpgDay 130 of 365 Days of Writing Prompts: Write about someone who is in a rush.

Shannon: “Can’t stop,” I put up my index finger up to block Rachael the second I saw her spot me from a few feet away.

“You can put up with me until you to get wherever you’re going,” she bypassed my statement.

“I’m really not in a good mind space to focus right now. I have seven places I need to get to in the next two hours, and I’ve already set myself up to fail. Do you want to talk later, when I will actually listen?”

“No, no. I don’t want to talk I just have to give you something,” she kept up with my pace as she swung her bag in front of her chest. “Here,” she handed me a tightly folded note. “It’s from him. I promised I’d get it to you.”

I stopped and let it drop to the cement. She quickly picked it up for me. “Why?” I squeezed my hands into fists. “I just told you I need to get shit done. I do not need that right now,” I scolded as I pointed at the paper.

“Then put it in your bag and read it later.”

“No, I can’t have it within arm’s reach, I’ll never be able to avoid it. You keep it until later, and I will try to forget I ever seen it,” I checked the time on my phone. I was already late. Why was still not moving?

“I’ll lose it, and I can’t be held responsible. No one can write or say the same thing twice. I did my part, I’m sorry, but it’s yours now,” she shoved it in my hand, and ran pass me, like we were kids playing tag.

Erin: Dear Journal,

Why do I have you? The days where the most happens, I don’t have time to stop and write about it.



Why is your character rushing around?

One thought on “Writing Prompt: Day 130

  1. “How can you be so slow at this, huh?” I demanded as we stood in the magnetic center of immobile throngs of last-minute shoppers just like my sister, Jessica. Her face was heavily creased with the effort of decision-making this crappy Sunday morning just before Christmas Eve. In the rush to get all the Christmas festivities perfectly arranged, as well as working double shifts at the boutique to cover a co-worker’s unfortunately-timed pregnancy, she hadn’t had a day to shop for our relatives. And, while I’m sure yours would completely understand the lack of physical presents, I assure you our closest relatives don’t understand the true point of the holidays; spending time with people you love and care about. Instead, it’s just an enormous contest between everyone as to who will give and receive the best offerings. Personally, I’m surprised every year that there aren’t prizes for the best or most expensive thoughts.
    At any rate, Jess and I were now swimming through the rivers of tense people who’d lost their Christmas cheer days ago and were now fighting their way to get the best leftovers. Jess just needed a few things for our folks and a major present for our aunt, who didn’t speak to our dad for three months following the kitchen-appliance fiasco last year where he gave her a mixer. A present needed to be thoughtful, expensive and wrapped with perfectly-folded corners to satisfy her; though, truthfully, the first and third could be fudged a bit as long as the second was out-of-the-park. No one ever made it across that threshold so we had to think quickly about what she may enjoy.
    As she stopped to check out some pearl necklaces, I raced through to check the sports section for something for our dad. I was just side-stepping a man carrying six large parcels in his hands when I nearly crashed into an old woman, who cursed like a sailor at me. Jeeze, this time of year people are so crabby and in a rush. Continuing around a corner, and a large gathering of women with the same noses, I made it to the picked-over sporting goods area and began searching for something useful and moderately expensive. A golf club shone from within a Plexiglas display case with three different sales stickers plastered across the surface. When I reached it, keeping my eyes scanning for something better, I sniggered at the price; perfect.
    With the smooth metal implement tucked carefully under my arm, I stepped back onto the conveyer of slow-moving customers and made my way, slipping in and out of traffic to avoid staying still for too long, and tracked down Jessica. She had a box wrapped with a velveteen bow holding the lid on in her chip-nailed fingers and was frowning slightly at the size. Pointing at the club in the din of shoppers, I motioned about the box, which was met with an apathetic thumbs-up.
    I rolled my eyes at the disinterested expression and dashed back into the crowd for the last gift on our list, leaving Jess holding an expensive necklace and a golf club on a relatively peaceful island all to herself amid the oceans of shoppers.


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