Merry Christmas, folks!
We’re back with another Tiny Things Thursday! Pick up your own copy of 642 Tiny Things to Write About and join me in these delightful runs at flash fiction. Be sure to post a link in the comments if you join in!
For today’s challenge, I’ve added my own stipulation that the answers take the form of a drabble. I’ve adjusted the definition of a drabble just a bit to say that it must be EXACTLY 100 words in length. And off we go!
Write about a time you broke…
My favorite bone breaking tale is of Coach Sizemore and the Broken Elbow. He was determined to teach me basketball, bless his soul, and would allow none of my teenage awkwardness or lack of talent to divert him. So he tossed me the ball during practice, told me he was going to guard me one on one, and I was to drive the lane to make a layup, no matter what. I drove the lane. He guarded and aggressively egged me on. And I knocked that honorably discharged, twice-my-size gentle giant so hard to the ground, he broke his elbow.
Stefan (pronounced Shhhhtefan) told me I was like a pearl wrapped in shards of glass. Lovely, he said, but requiring careful handling. Then he asked me to marry him. He was tall and handsome and sweet, with an unfortunate German accent (just isn’t as sexy as the British or South African accents), and he looked bright-eyed and hopeful as he awaited my answer on the rain-slicked basketball court of the school we lived in that summer during a one month internship. I smiled, thanked him for his sort of kind words, and declined. He nodded like he’d expected as much.
I have a problem and it’s my sister’s fault. My sister has a habit of pinching leaves off of succulent plants. It’s a small kind of thievery, one that goes completely unnoticed, but since you can grow a full plant from a single leaf, she’s pretty much shoplifting. So it’s her fault that I started “pinching” rocks from public parks for our garden border. It’s a victimless crime. But my mom says that it’s an embarrassment and the bottom of my stroller is getting worn where I stash the stolen stones. I have a problem. And it’s my sister’s fault.
There is something I have learned never to promise. It is the oldest promise I can remember and one I’ve broken time and again. I’ve lived on three continents, in nearly a dozen cities, in perhaps twenty different homes. And each move has meant the passing of a season, the end of a story, the death of a network of relationships. I am too nomadic, too invested in the next bend in the road to commit to the unending and rewarding labor of staying in touch. So “I’ll stay in touch” is now a promise I know not to make.