Gravy Mum

About four months ago I made a goal to myself to write a 1,000 words a day. For the most part, I've not only met that, I've surpassed it. Every so often what comes out is something I love. More often what comes out is less than perfect. And then there are those days when 2am hits, I haven't written yet, and I know I need to get up at 5:30 the next morning so I type as fast as I can because I have a goal to make, yet really love sleep. This is a result of the latter. Jim looked at his plate. It was covered in gravy.

“Mother,” Jim said, “What’s with the gravy? You know how I feel about gravy.”

“It gives you strong bones,” his mom said.

“That’s certifiably false,” he said.

“Just eat your gravy and stop being such a wise cracker,” his mum said.

“Listen mum,” he said “I-”

“Don’t call me mum,” mum said, “You too narrator.”

Damn. I didn’t realize you realized I was here.

“Of course I realized you were there. What? You think I can’t read? I’m some sort of idiot?” mum said.

“What did I just say?” the attractive, vibrant mother said.

“Who are you talking to Mom?” Jim asked.

Jim apparently couldn’t hear me when I wrote these lines in between.

“Yes, but I can,” she said.

“That doesn’t really answer my question,” Jim said.

“What? Oh. Nobody. Eat you’re gravy,” she said, despite the obvious fact that gravy is not good for anyone.

“No one asked you,” she said.

“No one asked me what?” Jim asked.

“No one asked you to stop eating,” she said, “Also, do I get a name?”

“Mom. I’m sorry. I know how you hate being called mum.”

“Nancy. Let’s go with Nancy. Call me Nancy,” the lady said.

The narrator got sick of dealing with Nancy so the story came to an abrupt end.

“Ooh la la,” Nancy said, “I write in third person even when talking about myself. Look at me. I’m so fancy.”

Fancy Nancy started prancing around the kitchen to push in the point.

“Don’t call me that either,” she said.

“Mom, you’re scaring me.”

I said abrupt end. Abrupt end.

The end.

“You call that a story?” Nancy asked.

The narrator stayed silent, as the story had already ended.

“Clearly not, if you’re putting in little lines like that.”

If the narrator didn’t move, perhaps she wouldn’t realize he was still there.

Nancy tapped her right index on her crossed arms, staring up at the ceiling, shaking her head.

The end.

Photograph by chotda via flickr