A King, four presidents, and a fish.

“I hate to bother you, but I have something important to ask.” The lilt of his accent was hypnotic. He seemed trustworthy and roguish, strange in a very familiar way.

I was like scared, and kinda shaking, and all “what the fuck?!”, but I didn’t say any of that. Instead I just said “sure?”.

The man asked his question in a whisper. I could sense his hurry. He put his hands on my shoulders, looked me straight in the eyes and asked, “How can you hold a king, four presidents, and a leaping fish in the palm your hand? You will have thirty seconds to answer”, he added. My hair stood on end, thirty seconds. There was danger on his words. He turned to look at something only he could see. “Your time starts now”, he said.

“Well” I said absent-mindedly. My hands dove into my pant pockets and began fiddling with change. In the palm of your hand. 

My mind fragmented in a thousand directions but at the center were the hands of clock ticking. Not being right sat in the pit of my stomaching blowing cold wind into my lungs.

The world fell away from view and thats when the answer came to me. Not in a thought, but a memory.

I remembered crystal blue waters and humid air that warmed my nostrils, faces on the side of a mountain, and the smell of thousands of fish.

When the world came back in view my arm was stretched before me. In my open palm lay three quarters.  One from Hawaii, with King Kamehameha on the back. The faces of four presidents lay on the back the other. The third coin depicted a salmon leaping from the Washington Sound.

The man smiled. “Only three seconds. Thats the best time ever” Three seconds.  Impossible. I went to those places, and a thousand others too. 

He simply smiled again and led me out of the cafe. Just in front was a black taxi cab, the kind that litter London. “Deposit your quarters in the meter. Be quick about. They’ll be here in any second” he warned.

I dropped the quarters in the meter and the world fell away again. Three men, dressed in black suits were yelling “halt” and racing toward us. We jumped in the cab and threw the meter up and the next thing we were in London.

“Well”, said the man with the funny accent,  “this is my stop. Been sometime since I’v been home. Want to have a go with the Taxi?” Again my response was “sure”, but with conviction this time.

“Right then. When you want want to go home just come back here, before August 14, 1946. Thats when I die”.

“Will do” I said, “hey, whats your name?” His smile made the hair on his lip dance a bit, “Herbert” he said, “but my friends call me H.G.”.

And that is how I became the proud owner of a time machine.

Jimmie G.

In response to the Writer’s Digest Weekly Writing Prompt; When a stranger taps you on the shoulder.  (500 words or less)

Its not you, it me…

So long writers block. I realize its not you, it me that has been the lazy muse. Lounging about on my ideas, squishing them into the dark recesses of the sofa. I can vacuum them later, but by that time they aren’t ideas anymore, just dead pieces of inspiration.

So I bid you adieu writers block. 42 years I have stood behind you doing little more than adding graffiti to your wall.

I might not paint a mural, but I can at least do a self portrait every day. Maybe stitch together a quilt of smaller stories, if mixed metaphors can be allowed.

I’m tired of waiting for something to excite me into writing. Starting today I’m starting a month long exercise of writing myself into excitement.

Jimmie G.

This post is the first for the two week challenge designed by the crew over at The Writer’s Digest. Its called The Writing Prompt Boot Camp: Two weeks of Craft, Creativity, and Discipline. The PDF is free if sign up for the WD newsletter.

The Last Jinx.

Garrett ‘s pocket began to tickle his side, a charming spell he cast on his cell phone because he was tired of missing calls. It was his mom. Shit. She knew his schedule to well for him not to answer. “Hey mom, what’s up?” Garrett couldn’t resist the “vulgar” greeting.

Silence hung in the air. Garrett felt like shit. “Sorry mom. I know you don’t like that stuff”, Garrett offered. Fear clung to his mothers words when she finally spoke. “Its dad” she said, someone cast a spell and he’s frozen solid”.

Garrett was now the silent one, although his teeth were a symphony of cracking knuckles as his molars ground against one another. “Mom”, he asked, “is dad holding anything at all?”

“Yes, a small box with an open lid. What is it Garrett? Can you help?”, his mother asked.

I’m the only one who can help. “Yes, I can fix it. I need you to get as much of the family gathered as possible, especially the cousins. As many as possible mom. Its very important”, Garrett stressed.

Garrett had jinxed his brother’s jinx. Epic fail obviously.  He had put a glamour spell on the box, making it look a small hinged box of black velvet. The kind of box one in which one might find a ring. His brother’s girlfriend was the intended target. She was meant to be frozen solid. With only one way to break the spell. Laughter.

Not just any type of laughter. Garrett had labored three months crafting this jinx. The only laughter that could melt this ice was humiliation. At least it wouldn’t take long. Garrett had plenty of that to spare.

He started by letting everyone now that dad was okay. The disappointment in the room hung in the air like a fart in a car. Its gonna be a tough room. 

Garrett readied himself as though he were inviting someone to punch him on the nose.

“Uncle Ronny is staying in the guest bedroom, where he likes to wear, well, nothing. A couple of weeks ago Beth walked into his room and saw what a prodigious man Uncle Ronny is. I tried to side track talk of how endowed he is by chastising Beth for walking in on people.  It didn’t work”.

Garrett explained how just this morning his little daughter Beth, only five years old, walked in on him peeing. She din’t offer an apology, nor did Beth hurry to leave. Instead she stood looking at her father a moment and gave him that punch to the nose by saying, “Daddy. You have a baby penis”.

Waves of laughter melted the ice in torrents. The gurgling sound of wet laughter came from his father. Beth’s laughter was like a desert sun over winter Alps.

That was Garrett’s last jinx and the last time he told the Baby Penis story. Though he would hear it for the rest of his life.

Jimmie G.

This post is in response to the Writer’s Digest Weekly Writing Prompt, Frozen Solid. The ending is recycled from my recent post Movie Night Ruined my Future Son-in-Law.

The phone rings. It’s your mother and she’s upset. “What’s wrong?” you ask. “It’s your father. A spell has been cast upon him and he’s been frozen solid.” You pause, knowing two things that your mother doesn’t: 1) This is your fault and 2) you’re the only one who can fix it. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll take care of it.” Write this scene.

The Daily Dude

Come on, man, I’m not trying to scam anybody here.