perils with writing and whatnot
It was about a week ago when I had stopped by the Twitter website that I was just going to hang out for about twenty minutes. As more often than not, good intentions fell and I stayed there for approximately forty-five minutes. Usually, I can keep my time there to a minimum, which is one of the big reasons it’s my favorite social media site. In this particular case though, I’m glad I was delayed. I found an account there that I’m sure every writer who has a personal blog is going to want to follow. The name of the account is ‘writingprompt’. The maximum of 140 characters per tweet is enough to get most if not all of us thinking about something creative to write. In that extra twenty-five minutes, I found five tweets that suited me perfectly.
The chill of the morning put a thin layer of ice on the puddles that dotted the gravel driveway. Making a quick dash for the newspaper sitting in the middle of the front lawn, I was caught off guard. Brrr! Even with my brushed cotton scuffies on, my toes felt like the ice clinging to the bare fruit trees lined up on the left side of the property.
There it was on the first page. These reporters don’t care about anything that is told to them unless it makes a story. I was there when it happened. The cops didn’t want anything in the paper, yet here is was, plain as day.
Yesterday afternoon, as I drove down the street to my humble abode, I saw a man and woman run out of a neighbor’s house, jump into an old model Cherokee Jeep and sped past me, almost clipping my front right fender. I don’t think anyone on my street block owns a Jeep, but I could have been wrong. At least, that’s what I thought while walking up to the door of my house after the incident was initially over.
Approximately ten minutes late, I heard the sirens of the cop cars. I put my windbreaker on and moseyed down the street to where they had parked. After all, I was a witness, even if it was actually after the event. They, as I knew they would, tried to prevent me from getting close to ‘the house in question’.
“I’m a friend and neighbor of the Thomas’. Besides, I was driving down this street when whoever was here at this house was driving up it.” Yes, I was slightly hot under the collar. It did change their tune though. One of the cops escorted me to the front porch of the house where a plain-clothed cop was typing notes onto his Smartphone.
“Bill, she thinks she saw the perpetrators.”
“Okay. Ma’am, just let me get this stuff down.” He didn’t look up. It didn’t bother me in the least. I can’t type without looking either.
While waiting, I saw the newspaper and TV people arrive. The cops, who had detained me from getting close, were doing the same to those guys. They tried to ask the cops questions to no avail. The officers just kept them at bay telling them that they’d get their story after the investigation, which gave a few of the media people red faces of anger. I just stood there on the porch trying not to laugh.
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James Edgar Skye
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