Priming the pump

 

My grandfather had a garden with a pump. We would prime it by pouring a cup of water into it. Fresh, sweet water would flow.

My writing sessions with my friend is a mental pump. Instead of a cup, we have a prompt. Because no tea rooms are open to find some one to write about, we sit at a kitchen table, hers or mine, and pick a sentence from a book. We write for ten minutes, hoping to get a piece of flash fiction.

Some pieces are a complete story, others are a start. In almost all cases, after a session I am far more productive working on my novel in progress.

Here's yesterday's primes. The first sentence in italics is the prompt.

 Father and daughter sat down to eat.

"Mummy mixes the sauce into the 'psegetti. She doesn't leave it on top."

Tim wanted to say, "Shut up and eat," but he knew four-year old Lila was missing her mom.

"Antonio's does too." Lila mentioned the Italian restaurant around the corner where the family ate at least twice a month.

Tim reached across the table and mixed the sauce into the pasta.

How had he reached this place in life?

He'd been a happy bachelor. Then he met Clare. Love at first sight, a thunder bolt. A too big wedding. When he complained to his father at the reception, the old man whispered in his ear, "Men in our family stick to their commitments." 

Their first three years were free and happy. 

Then Lila.

It wasn't that he didn't love Lila, he just didn't like the work involved nor the lack of freedom to do what they wanted when they wanted. When Clare chided him on how little he did, he didn't deny it.

For the last four days while Clare was at a conference he had sole responsibility for everything.

The phone rang. His wife was checking in. "Honey, I've got good news. I'm pregnant."

A few more things happened.

The dishwasher flooded. The dog threw up. Jason's shelf broke dumping his books on the floor. One shelf had his Legos and a 1000-piece puzzle.

Three-year old Carrie was still on antibiotics. Susan would have to chase her daughter around the apartment and sit on her to get her to swallow the pill. Pilling the dog was easier.

A magazine with stories about how to be a creative housewife was on the coffee table covering the coffee cup mark.

When Carrie took her nap, Susan made herself a cuppa. She took the tea and a store-bought brownie into the living room and settled on the couch and flipped on the news of an earthquake, riot and war. She shut off the TV and closed her eyes.

In her dream she was dressed in pants, a turtle neck and jacket. The colors were co-ordinated with a scarf. She strutted through a cherry-blossomed strewn park to a tea room where she met he college friend and they chatted about books.

Carrie's scream woke her.

It was time for another pill, and she trapped her daughter next to the sofa and straddled her, just as David walked in. 

Carrie's teeth drew blood followed by the child spitting the pill onto the rug.

"Jesus, Susan, can't you be better with her?" her husband asked.

Susan picked up the pill and handed it to David. She went to the hall closet and took out her coat. As she closed the door behind her she said, "You do it."