Morning all. I hope you are having a fabulous Monday. Mine is in desperate need of caffeine but otherwise okay. And since the coffee is brewing, that should be remedied soon. For now, we have a writing prompt to jump into. Ready? Set those timers for fifteen minutes and let’s see what we come up with.
While not a great situation, there is something I really like about this. I am probably going to be thinking about this story over the course of the day actually.
Monday, December 15th: He heard the snip of scissors.
He heard the snip of scissors. He frowned. Jake wasn’t aware anyone was in the house. He wasn’t even supposed to be here. His practice ended early because of coach’s allergies. At least everyone was calling it allergies. Jake had his doubts. Most everything outside was still covered in a layer of frost and coach was not only sneezing and coughing but he seemed to be alternating between bouts of sweats and chills.
All of them kept well back from him, not wanting to catch whatever he had. After the last round of coughing left him doubled over and wheezing for a good five minutes, the assistant finally called practice. They all departed while Coach Mac’s assistant tried to convince him to go see a doctor or at least take something other than an over the counter hay fever tablet.
Jake wished him well. They all knew Coach’s resistance to anything medical.
He expected to get home early, before anyone else was in the house and work on his latest set of drawings. He hadn’t expected to find anyone else in. Jake followed the sound of snipping and realized it was coming from his room. Jake frowned and cautiously eased forward. He peered around the door and into his room.
“Dad?” he said. His father turned, startled. The scissors gleamed in the overhead lights. Scattered around the floor like confetti were the remains of his sketch pad. The drawings shredded. Dropped on the floor were crayons, spilled out of the pack and clearly visible like planted evidence in a crime scene.
“You aren’t supposed to be home until six,” his father said. His eyes were wide, the blades of the scissors still clamped on one of the last pages of the sketch pad. Jake blinked taking in the scene. He knew he should feel something. Was certain he would feel something when he started to feel, but for now there was just an echoing empty space inside him. A vast chasm of white noise.
“Were you going to blame this on the twins?” Jake asked.
His father glanced down at the crayons and flushed. “You always complain about them getting into your things.”
Jake simply stared at his father.
He closed the scissors, the snip sounding loud as the last piece was cut in half. The pages fluttered to the floor. His father lowered the scissors and tapped them against his leg. “Well you need to focus more on football and less on this artsy crap anyway.”
“And you couldn’t tell me that without blaming a set of five year old boys?” Jake asked.
His father’s flush deepened. “That is not important now. What is important is that you will be more focused now.” Jake blinked. He stepped further into the room. With the door clear his father made his escape. Jake heard the steps retreating, heard the front door open and close. He felt the house echoing emptily around him.
Ten til Midnight 