“Alright, everyone look alert.
Move over, Cxut, I’m standing here.”
“Damn crowded platform, don’t know how you expected all of us to even get up here, much less get in formation.”
“Up straight, I think someone’s looking!”
“Mpfl, be still, don’t look. I told everyone he was too young to come. He’ll give us all away.”
“Think beautiful. Hold your heads up—graceful, not haughty.”
“Don’t everyone look in the same direction! You look like a cadet review!”
“I heard that!”
“Silence, everyone. It will so be worth it. Just open your senses to the now.”
Now is our moment.
I’m a Lucky Bear! I have my own little girl.
I have my own string! My girl put it on me. I get to ride around on the string, hanging close to her heart.
Mommy made her take me off and leave me here on the mommy bench so I wouldn’t get lost while she plays on the playground.
Once my string broke and I spent a terrible lonely night in a dark restaurant in a lost and found box. I was not a happy bear. My girl’s mommy rescued me the next day, but that one night away was hard. And scary. I could tell that my girl had been crying too. We never want to do that again. So here I lie, on the mommy bench, waiting on my lucky girl.
A drabble is a tiny piece of random writing, sometimes from a prompt, as this one is. They can be very short or up to about a page. The prompt can be a picture or words. Or just unprompted thoughts.
Everyone keeps telling me the trick to being a writer is to keep writing. I don’t think they say that to painters. But maybe they do.
I have friends who can’t stop themselves from writing. They don’t understand how I can NOT write. They can tell I’m literate, and I edit their things and help make them better, and I can tell a funny story, so they just assume I must be able to write too. But what they don’t know is that almost all the funny stories I tell are just true.
My family is just interesting and funny, and we go interesting places and funny things happen to us. When I’m with them, and someone does something, I say, “You know you’re going to be chapter 57 when I write my book!” We’ve even decided what the title should be. And Then There Was More Food, because there always is. We laugh until we cry, and then we go back for more pie.