Creativing Writing Exercise - Bingo Cheater

Last night I got a phone call from Grandma. 

“Hey honey.  It’s Grandma. I’ve got a favor to ask you and its extremely top secret.”

“Um, okay Grandma.  What is it?” I replied, trying to not let her catch the laugh gathering in my throat.

“I need you to go to Monday Night Bingo for me tomorrow,” she quickly said.

Bingo.  Why in the world would I want to hang out with all of those old people?  They smell weird and I get uncomfortable when I catch the old ladies winking at me.

“Really Grandma?  Why?”

“I’ve got a mission for you to do.  I can’t go.  It’s the Lawrence Welk reunion show and I promised Sally I’d come over and watch it with her.  I’m pretty sure that Big Bob is cheating and I need you to get in there and figure out how he’s doing it.  He’s won the top prize for the past three weeks and I don’t think its luck that is helping him to win.  Can you do this for me honey?  You are so good at those video games you play and I know you want to be a detective when you grow up.  You can put this on your resume.”

“I guess I could look into it,” was my reply.  I will admit.  I couldn’t turn down an opportunity to investigate, although I thought this was absolutely ridiculous. Big Bob was like the oldest man in our town and used a rickety old walker that he always pokes me with when I am near him.  It irritates me to no end, but he seems to find it humorous.

“Oh honey! I knew you’d do this for your old Granny! Bingo starts at 7:00pm sharp! Don’t be late.  And whatever you do, no one can know why you are there.  Your Granny loves you!” She hung up the phone before I could respond.

The next night I put on my best shirt and tie and headed out to Bingo Night.  I got my driver’s license three weeks ago and was able to convince my parents to let me drive myself.  I showed up five minutes early and made sure to get a seat close to Big Bob.  He greeted me with a not-so-gentle poke in the ribs with one of the legs of his walker.  I tried to hide the pain and gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder in return.

At 7:00pm sharp the first game of Bingo began.  I bought two cards and was doing a good job of managing my cards while also keeping an eye on Big Bob.  He seemed to be marking off his cards honestly and no cheating seemed to be going on.  In fact, Big Bob was doing terrible.  He didn’t win a single game of Bingo the entire night.

As we reached the final game of the night, Blackout, my awareness of Big Bob increased and I even forgot to mark off some of my numbers because I didn’t want to miss a single movement.  Nothing seemed awry and I began to think that Granny was crazy for thinking Big Bob was a cheat and I was beginning to regret accepting the mission she’d given me.

Suddenly, Big Bob began to have a coughing attack.  Everyone stopped as Bob coughed and coughed. I thought he was going to hack up a lung all of the coughing he was doing.  He bent over to and leaned against his walker.  While I doing this he did something very peculiar.  He accidentally kicked one of the tennis balls that was attached to the bottom of his walker and it rolled towards the Bingo Caller.  The Caller bent to picked it up and as he did, Bob let out a huge cough that had the sound of death in it.  

Everyone turned to look at Bob.  For some reason I kept my eye on the Caller.  He picked up the tennis ball and reached inside the ball and took out several number chips and put them in his pocket.  I could not believe my eyes.  Granny was right!  Big Bob was cheating and he wasn’t alone in his pursuits.  As soon as the Caller pocketed the number chips Big Bob quit coughing, took a drink of water and said he felt much better and was ready to proceed.

I was frozen.  I had just witnessed my first crime.  I couldn’t wait to tell Granny!

Creative Writing Now - Dear Doctor

You’re not going to believe this, but the strangest thing happened to me about a month ago.  I was down in Lake Powell with some friends and we were hanging out on the houseboat.   Out in the lake there was a tree that was growing out of the water.  My friends and I decided to go climb its branches and jump off into the water.

We each took turns climbing up the tree, which stuck about ten feet out of the water, and then doing some crazy trick into the water.  Jimmy did a killer swan dive, while Kate did a double back flip.  I wish I was as daring as them, but the best I could do was a cannon.  I used to dare to do flips and dives and all that crazy stuff, but the older I get the more afraid I am to try it. 

After about three or four jumps each my friends persuaded me to go one more time and do a front flip.  I was terrified, but I didn’t want to be teased for being a chicken.  So I swam back over the tree and started to climb.  When I got about eight feet up my foot slipped, I lost my hold and dropped out of the tree. 

As I plummeted back down to the water I tried to avoid hitting the branch below me.  Fortunately, my head barely missed it, but my back side hit it just as I was about to enter the water and gave me a huge gash across my left butt cheek.

I hit the water and the pain in my butt was awful.  My friends swam out to me to make sure I was okay. I assured them that I was fine, but the blood spilling from my bum gave me away.  We swam back to the house boat and I made everyone else get out before I did. When I came out of the water I reached back and there was a huge whole where my bathing suit got cut by the branch. 

John, my crush, is in medical school and offered to take a look at it.  I was mortified! He went to get the first aid kit as I quickly wrapped a towel around my waist.  When he came back we went up to the top deck of the boat where he examined my wound.  All I could think of while he was checking it and cleaning it was, “The cutest boy on the boat is looking at my bare bum.” I was so humiliated. 

When he had it all cleaned up and covered with a large Band-Aid he told me in his most professional sounding doctor voice that I should probably go and get the cut looked at.  He gave me a little wink as he cleaned up his supplies and headed back down to the main cabin.  I stood there for a few extra minutes to gain my composure and make sure my cheeks weren’t bright red before going down.

I decided that since we were in the middle of nowhere, I’d just take it easy and stay out of the water the last two days we were there.  Then I’d stop at a hospital on my way home.  That turned out to be the worst decision ever.  By the last day my bum was so sore, I couldn’t handle sitting on it or putting any pressure on it.  I basically laid on my stomach the entire day.

Kate and I stopped at the first hospital we came to on our way home.  The doctor took a look at it, said I had an infection and prescribed me some antibiotics.  It’s been a terrible ordeal and my bum is still not all the way back to normal.   I am still on antibiotics and that’s why I can’t get a flu shot today.

Creative Writing Now - Mysterious Puzzle

Ten years.  I never thought I’d be old enough to be getting an invitation to my ten year school reunion.  It seems like high school was an eternity ago.  Was it really only ten years ago?  I looked at the invitation and knew right away that I would not be attending.  I hated high school.  Why would I want to go back and be reminded of those awful years of trying to fit in and failing miserably at it?

I threw the invitation on my pile of unread junk mail and magazines and continued on with my day. I thought about my life and how glad I was that I had moved away to college, settled in with a solid group of friends and found a decent guy to marry.  The awful years of high school were behind me and I was happy with the life I now lived.

A few weeks passed and the invitation had been forgotten.  My husband brought in the mail and threw it on the counter as I was busy putting away the groceries.  Once the food was all put away I started thumbing through the mail when a strange letter caught my attention.  My name was on the envelope, but it was my maiden name.  The handwriting was a bit shaky and looked as though a young child had written it.  There was no return address.

I tore open the letter to find a single sheet of paper.  The handwriting was a bit more legible and all that was written was some sort of math problem or puzzle.  Who would send me something like this? What did it mean?  For some reason, the puzzle seemed strangely familiar.  I stared at it for what seemed like hours, when realization of what I was looking at hit me with full force.  It lost my breath as I thought, “There’s no way this can be possible.”

My sophomore year of high school I had Miss Jenkins for math. Her class was the best.  I was a decent math student, but the way Miss Jenkins taught brought math alive right in front of my eyes.  Numbers and equations became a symphony to me and Miss Jenkins was the conductor.  She taught us how the pieces all fit together to create a beautiful masterpiece. 

 Each day she started class with a special puzzle that we were all asked to answer.   At first the puzzles made no sense, but slowly I began to understand the sequence and the order of these puzzles.  It was like Miss Jenkins was speaking to us in code and the things we learned in class each day taught us how to break that code and solve the puzzles.

The problem was, Miss Jenkins disappeared.  One day, about a month before school let out for the summer, Miss Jenkins didn’t show up for class.  I had her first period and we all sat there, waiting for her to come.  There was no puzzle for us to solve and an eery feeling came over me. I knew something was wrong.   She was not the kind of teacher to miss class.

Halfway through class I volunteered to go to the principal’s office and let him know what was going on.  He looked at me with a worried face.  Miss Jenkins was one of his best teachers and he seemed to know that something must have happened to her.  He called her home: no answer.  He called her cell phone: no answer.  He call her mother, who was her emergency contact.  She hadn’t heard from her daughter for several days.  She was worried.

The police were called and for weeks they searched for Miss Jenkins.  She was never found.  There was evidence that her apartment had been broken into, but any other evidence they found led to a dead end.  After a year, they determined she was dead.  It was horrifying and for months I had nightmares about Miss Jenkins being kidnapped and murdered.  

Now, here I was looking at one of Miss Jenkins’ puzzles.  I could recognize that handwriting, even 12 years later.  My mind started racing and I knew I needed to solve the puzzle before me.  But I had no idea what it meant.  It had been so long since I sat in math class figuring out those puzzles.  

There was only one solution I could come up with.  I went to the pile of junk mail, sifted through it until I find that class reunion invitation.  I hoped that I hadn’t missed it. I looked at the date. It was still five days away.  I sent an email to the R.S.V.P. address given and started making plans for my trip home.  

If I was going to solve this puzzle I’d need the help of the other students in Miss Jenkins first period math class.  Little did I know that at the same time I received this mysterious letter, several of my other classmates had received their own puzzles in the mail. 

Creative Writing Now - The Letter

Momma was standing in the kitchen watching over a pot of boiled eggs.  If there is one thing Momma knows how to do its boiling eggs.  For breakfast every morning we each eat two hard boiled eggs along with some crispy bacon or fried sausage.  Lunch time almost always consists of egg salad sandwiches with chopped up celery.  And for dinner.  Yep, that’s right.  Some sort of egg casserole or deviled egg .  

Thinking about the hard boiled eggs almost makes me forget the reason I came to the kitchen to talk to Momma.  This afternoon I was home alone and the house was really quiet.  I was sitting in my room working on some homework when I looked up and my eye caught something I’d never noticed.  I’ve lived in this room my entire 15 years on this earth and I’d never noticed the loose floor board peeking out from under my rug.

I walked over to investigate and as I moved the rug I realized that by putting a pencil in between the floor boards I could leverage it enough to make that loose floorboard pop up.  I removed the board and underneath it was a small wooden treasure chest.  It was painted a soft purple and had Momma’s name painted on the side of it.

When I took out the treasure box I set in on the floor in front of me.  As a teenage girl I looked at that box and thought only one thing. It must have something romantic inside.  Perhaps a love letter from my father or a pearl necklace my Momma inherited from her Momma. 

As I opened the box I gasped as I saw the faded envelope with Momma’s name on it.  I would have never thought my father to have done anything romantic in his entire life, but I guess I didn’t know him back then and he had to have won Momma’s heart somehow.         

I picked up the envelope and slowly pulled the letter out.  I opened it and began reading.  

August 3, 1963

Dear Beatrice,

I long for the day when this war is over and I can come home to you and begin our happily ever after together.  I have loved you from the first day we bumped into one another at Carl’s party.  Your auburn hair smelled of lilacs and those soft hazel eyes made me want to melt. My heart is forever yours and I will come back to you. I love you my Honey Bea.

              

            Forever Yours,

            Freddie Wilson

There were two things that I knew were very wrong with this letter.  First, it was dated 1963.  It must have been a mistake.  The current year is 1958. Maybe he mistakenly wrote 1963 rather than 1936 or something.  Second, Freddie Wilson is not my father.  I have never heard of him before.  But according to this letter he loved my Momma, and I'm guess she might have loved him too.

I had to get to the bottom of this.

Creative Writing Now - Break In

Work was long today.  I sat at my desk, staring out my window, wishing I could find a way to escape this daily ritual of mine.  I arrive at work, write down my list of to-do’s for the day and then get busy.  I cross things off one by one, happy with the work I’ve done on each task, but strangely is seems as though at 3:30pm each day I finish my list.

What to do with the final hour and a half is always a struggle.  I wish I could just leave when my work was complete, no longer an anxious prisoner to the time I could be using on other things.  But I wait until 5:00 each day.  I have the luxury of surfing the internet and stalking friends on Facebook, but that no longer gives me a thrill.  It increases the boredom and makes me feel even more trapped in this small square office with only a small window to the outside world.

Each day I fight that hour and a half.  Today it seemed to drag on forever.  In my head I could hear each second ticking away in my mind and when I looked at the clock only one or two minutes had passed away.  Inside I was screaming, wanting to be set free.  I am not meant to sit day after day after day in a room with four walls, breathing the same stagnant air for eight hours. I craved freedom. 

Finally, the clock turned to 5:00pm and I was already walking out my door and heading to the parking lot.  Stepping out into the sunlight I felt myself come alive and the energy that had been shut off during the work day hit me full force and I couldn’t wait to get home and go for a run.  With so much built up energy I feel as though I can run for hours and hours.

I rush home, unlock my apartment door and halfway walking across my living room I freeze.  Something’s wrong.  I notice broken glass and an emptiness that suffocates me.  My couches are gone, along with my tv.  The walls are bare and even my family photo that hung over my couch is gone.  

I take a look into my bedroom.  Again, emptiness surrounds me.  Who would take my bed? Who would take my life? Opened closets reveal my clothing is gone.  EVERYTHING is gone. I am frozen. I close my eyes. This must be a dream.  I’ll wake up soon.  I feel like I’m floating, traveling from room to room. My things have disappeared. I no longer exist.

One more look in the living room and I notice something small in the corner.  Slowly I walk towards it and dread fills each of my bones as I see what it is. The heaviness of the dread pushes me down to my knees.  The only thing remaining in my apartment is an empty box of Milk Duds.  I remember the man at the movie theater.  The way he watched me as I walked with my friends to the counter. He listened as I told them about my favorite treat.  

When I ran into him a few days later, as I was walking home from a run in park, he offered me a box of Milk Duds.  I’d seen him multiple times when I’d been out running or out with friends.  I’d caught him looking at me.  I declined the box and politely asked him to leave me alone.  How did he find my house? How did he get all of my stuff out of my apartment? Why would he do this to me?

Suddenly, I am aware that someone is standing behind me.  I turn to face him.  My questions will be answered soon enough.