Forgot to blog this morning! But it’s a writing day, so here’s a six minute story:

Black and white. I couldn’t believe Dad had done it again.

I know I’m lucky, I do. You can say I’m spoiled if you like, but it doesn’t matter – I’d asked for ONE THING this Christmas, and it was colour.

I looked up at my father, tried to fake a smile, and said ‘Thanks’. As soon as he turned away, I rolled my eyes, and unwrapped my next present.

A sweater. Great. I wondered what colour it was – if I went out wearing this and one of my friends actually GOT what she asked for and could see whether or not it matched my jeans, my hair…I was screwed.

My brother Billy opened his present next. A jigsaw puzzle. Thanks Dad. How are we meant to do that when we can’t even tell which bits are sky??

Maybe it would be better, I sometimes thought, if we weren’t even in a privileged family. Maybe if I knew there was NO chance of getting colour, even for a few days, it wouldn’t bug me so much that we didn’t have it. Maybe I’d consider myself lucky to even have black and white – I know that some families have to rely on government hand-outs, and they only get two-tone. At least our black and white is greyscale.

But it’s just annoying, when your Dad works at the company, and makes enough that they could easily get it for the whole family.

I forced a smile again as I opened a gift from Stacey, Dad’s new girl-of-the-year. It was a hat. Great.

It looked like it was patterned, but without colour, there was no way to know for sure. I put it on, and saw her start to correct me, before guiltily stopping.

It took me another present or two to put it together, and then I exploded.

“you got HER colour!? HER!??”

 

I’m about to start my writing for the day, so I whipped out a 6 minute story. I kept an eye too close to the time, and so the program stopped letting me type with one word to go (and a typo in the final sentence.)

I considered fixing it before posting it here, but I’m confident that my readers can work out what I was trying to say. (or maybe not! There are two possible endings, now that I think about it. Which one I meant will never be known.)

Prompt:

Story:

Sal was in love.

A part of her felt that she’d always been in love, and almost each time with a different man. But this time she knew it was real. For this man, she’d been in love with twice.

Sal had first met Harold two years ago, when he was about to be hit by a falling piano. That was when she’d known it was love most true, love most divine.

If Sal possessed anything close to an introspective nature, she may have realised that each and every time she fell in love, it was with someone on the brink of tragedy, most often death.

There was Timothy, who had been diagnosed with cancer mere seconds before Sal had realised that their love was true and eternal. There was Michael, who had just found out that the mob had a hit out on him, and when he’d told Sal, she’d almost fallen to her knees and wept at the power of their love.

And now, when she saw Harold unwittingly walk into the path of a runaway train, she’d realised that this was love most tender, most pure. She’d realised that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with Harold (or at least the rest of his life) – she wanted to be with him always, and share their deepest innermost thoughts and desires.

Sal’s hand went into her pocket, where the ring sat. She’d bought it on a whim, almost a decade ago, when she’d heard about a natural disaster taking out half of a city. Her heart had pined, she’d vowed to make sure that she always followed the path of love, and she’d walked into the nearest jewellers and purchased an engagement ring.

Now, at last, the opportunity to use it had come. Now, at last, she could enter into that most sacred covenant, pure bliss, the most holy of ceremonies.

Now, at last, she could get married.

She stepped forward to propose to Harold, who she hadn’t seen in so many years. She stepped forward to profess her love.

But bvefore she could, a train hit h

Read it on the site.

SixMinuteStory.com gives you a piece of creative commons stimulus and six minutes to write a story. No revisions are allowed; you have six minutes, and then you’re done.

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I looked at the passport, and then back up at the woman standing in front of me.

“Are you serious?” I asked, a puzzled look on my face.

She looked sad.

“What is to be funny?” she said, her broken English somehow endearing.

“I don’t know how they do things in…” I turned her passport over, and looked at the country name listed. It took up three lines, and many of the letters just looked like squiggles to me. “…your home country, but over here we do things differently.”

“Is me!” she smiled, and I felt my tough exterior melting slightly. “Is me, is true! I swear it to be!”

“Excuse me, sir.” Turning to the man behind her, I borrowed his passport to use as an example. “You see, your typical passport will have a photo like this in it. Yours…well for one, it looks hand-drawn.”

“Yes, yes!” she cried excitedly. “Is hand-drawn by Duke of Yoggolomoniantia! He best drawn hand in world. Passport is good, yes?”

“No, I…”

I sighed.

“Listen, I’m afraid that I can’t let you in. Not with this…I mean, for heaven’s sake, one of your tit is showing!”

“Is good tit!” she said, and started to remove her top to show me. “Is best tit in all of Hagroniantominialopskell! You like?”

I stared at her tit briefly, and then looked down at the passport.

“Oh,” I said. “I suppose it is you.”

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