our homework this week is to write a 6 word story. an autobiography, if you will. our inspiration was this story by ernest hemingway…
For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
and so without further ado, here are my submissions.
Born prematurely. Still arriving places early.
Greenville. Phoenix. Flemington. Harrisonburg. Somerville. Cambridge.
Long distance family. Large phone bill.
what’s your 6 word story?
a hideous screeching vibrating wailing screaming came through my radiator. louder and louder. i froze. if i moved, would my whole floor collapse? i tiptoed out into the hall where other curious coworkers asked what was going on. “i think we’re going to die,” i said. G, who gets startled just from running into people in the hall, said, “i’m going to go figure it out,” and walked into the dark stairwell. “i’m not going down there,” i said, but helpfully turned on the light. this was an october noise. nothing good could come of it.
i’m supposed to be in charge while my boss is away. guess the bosslady badge doesn’t come with courage.
G reported back they were putting up a light fixture in the mailroom. the noise we heard was drilling.
a new bagel shop opened up yesterday. i need to test it to see if my “i only get bagels in NJ” rule stands or if i can make an exception.
i am a “woman with the hips for laughter.”
the heavy cloud coverage kept my room dark and too many nights in a row of too little sleep kept me in bed too long this morning. after waking up from falling accidentally back to sleep post alarm, i hustled through my morning routine. i was interrupted by a text from my boss who is not in the country. it was a semi-frantic text, which matched my own semi-panicked morning.
him: My phone isn’t working internationally. Could to talk to it asap.
me: Talk or text?
him: No cell service at all. I’m on wifi at the moment…
he continued on with details as i pondered why he wanted me to call his phone but kept giving me details about how it wasn’t working and what he’d tried to do so far. it wasn’t until i was in the middle of drying my hair that i realized he meant IT the department not it the phone. he wanted me to talk to the help desk on his behalf, not call him. everything made sense now. i quickly texted him i officially understood the problem despite my original question sounding like i knew what was going on…side note: i’m so lucky to have a boss who laughs at my moments of stupidity instead of docks me for them.
now that my brain was no longer scrambled, it was time for eggs and emailing the help desk. then, when i could avoid it for no longer, i walked to work in the pouring rain with a broken umbrella. maybe the IT department will take pity on my soaked clothes and prioritize helping my boss with his international crisis.
i always burn my tongue whenever i’m eating pizza or soup. always. you’d think i’d learn. today is a soup day, though, all soggy and dreary and chilly bones. two days of a tender, burned tongue is a fair trade for warmth and coziness amidst a gray day.
a friend is coming to visit this weekend which means joy, excitement, fun, and before that, all the cleaning. i’d call myself a tidy person, but not necessarily a neat person. dusting is truly annoying and vacuuming pointless. dishes, however, i never let sit. they’re a pain to wash meal in and meal out, and so letting them sit is the worst offense of all because then the food, crumbs, and stains grow into the plates and pots and pans and that’s no match for a sponge. dishes get done immediately in my household.
we’re nearing the workshop portion of my class and the fears i’d thought i’d set aside are blinking themselves awake.
and yet, i’m also considering submitting a piece to an online journal. my teacher said we should aim for rejection so if you get something else, it’s a pleasant surprise and if you don’t, you’ve reached your goal. the only time my writing’s ever received a yes was when i applied to the MFA program.
tuesdays that are mondays and mondays that are tuesdays and trying to get all the work done in every direction. filling in the gaps during a coworker’s absence makes every day feel strange. what day of the week is it? does it matter? as long as the work gets done.
“S’MORES!” came the call down the hallway. i love s’mores as consistently and deeply as i hate pineapple. “Outside!” they said and i joined the parade of my coworkers from surrounding offices. a mini fire pit on the new patio plus two coworkers with proper tastebuds and generous hearts multiplied by one coworker who’s never had a s’more divided by all those of us who have equals smokey memories old and new.
some marshmallows were golden. most were charred. just like every monday. or was it tuesday?
Abigail Mumford 