Morning all. I am actually running a little early this morning. Not entirely sure how that happened, but I am willing to take it. I’m stuffy and puffy but I think that is more weather related than anything else, which makes for a nice change. So on with the prompt!
I’m not entirely certain what I’d do with this snippet. I like the idea of the shelter, bombardment and tactical retreat. I’d like the argument to be over something important, like an important internship or magical achievement to contrast the petty name calling and glass throwing. I just need to find the story to go with the scene.
Thursday, August 11th: He tried to diffuse the situation.
He tried to diffuse the situation. “Now why don’t we all just sit down and talk through this rationally,” he said.
A ceramic pitcher went sailing over his head and smashed into the wall behind him. Glimmering shards rained down to the floorboards beneath.
“I’ll sit down when she apologizes,” Emilie called from behind her barricade of the dressing table. Stan considered the shelter a wise precaution. The mirror of the table was already spider webbed with cracks from previous missiles Allison sent her way.
“Apologize,” Alison fairly screeched. “I am the one who has been wronged.” A ceramic shepherd flew through the air and collided with the already fractured glass of the dressing table mirror. The second collision was too much and a sliver fell out of the fractured whole. As though it was the only piece holding the others in place, the rest of the shards began a slow descent out of the frame.
“I am the one wronged,” Emilie called. She reached down to the dressing table and grabbed a missile of her own. A cut glass perfume bottle flew through the air spilling a thickly cloying floral scent behind it before colliding with the chest of drawers behind which Emilie was shielding.
“Perhaps,” Stan tried again. “Perhaps we could try just talking it out without throwing things.” Items flew from both sides of the room and he retreated through the door. He heard the broken glass and shattered pottery behind him.
He pulled the door shut and stood in the hallway. The shouts and insults the two hurled at each other had more accuracy than their physical missiles, but were blocked for the most part by the thickness of the wooden door. Stan stood staring at the door for a long moment listening. Without his presence the insults became both more daring and more targets. The two women left the generalities behind and each seemed to pull up specific incidents to use against each other.
Stan felt the tips of his ears redden as he listened. The two seemed to have an endless supply of invective. “But at least they have a limited supply of projectiles.”
He thought about the items each woman had near to hand. “Perhaps waiting until there is nothing more for them to throw would be helpful,” he decided. The through pleased him. It made him feel as though he had a plan. His retreat was not merely running from a situation he could in no way handle and more of a tactical retreat. A tactical retreat made it more of a plan than a scurry out of harm’s way.
“Yes,” he told himself. He tugged his shirt straight. “I’ll wait until they have run out of ammunition and then when they are exhausted from their violence and screaming, I will sit them down and we will talk this through rationally.”
Feeling pleased with himself, he turned and walked down the hall, seeking the shelter of his own sitting room. ‘I think a tactical retreat calls for brandy,” he decided closing his own door and further muffling the argument.
Ten til Midnight 