Just a quick break here from Everything Falls Apart. Jolene (aka Chico’s Mom) posts some writing prompts every once in a while and I always like to take a stab at writing some flash with what she gives folks. This time around the four prompts are:
- magic gloves
- restaurant
- person who needs a job
- explorer
Don’t ask me why this particular scene came to mind when I saw the prompts. But it appeared almost immediately.
Apologies to Ringo. This, I guess, might be classed as fanfict. I don’t claim any copyright to the characters mentioned in this work of fiction.
Ringo sank deeper into the dark, quiet cafe booth as a yellow submarine drifted past the window. As it moved on in search of Pepperland, he sighed and straightened up.
The kitchen doors swung open, and a massive, disembodied white glove floated out, wearing a crisp black bow tie pinned to its wrist and a serving towel draped over its thumb.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the Glove rumbled, producing a crumpled notepad. “Welcome. I shall be your… erm, provider of sustenance today.”
Ringo blinked. “Oh. Hello. Aren’t you supposed to be out there squishing things?”
The Glove sighed, a sad puff of air escaping its cuff. “The Chief Meanie has no appreciation for work-life balance. Always ‘Crush this!’ It’s terrible for the joints. I am transitioning into hospitality. Please do not tell him about my moonlighting; he thinks I am on medical leave for a sprained index finger.”
“Your secret’s safe, mate,” Ringo said. “I’m taking a breather myself. I’ve had me fill of colour for one lifetime. Treacle sponge, please. Thick, dark, and sticky. Tea, too.”
The Glove’s index finger tapped its thumb thoughtfully. “A substance of deep, satisfying gloom. It appeals to my Meanie sensibilities. Shall I top it with a lovely, bright yellow custard?”
“No yellow!” Ringo recoiled. “Just cream. Goat’s milk. Cow’s doesn’t agree with me.”
“Goat’s milk. Cow avoided. No yellow. Understood, Mr. Starr.”
The Glove bowed from the wrist and glided toward the kitchen.
Ringo checked the window for anything looking like a submarine. There was nothing.
Moments later, the Glove returned and set down a plate in front of Ringo.
“That doesn’t seem right,” Ringo remarked. “A bit thinner than I’m used to. That’s a beer mat, that is.”
The Glove’s fingers drooped.
“My apologies, sir. Habit.”
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