Welcome to Day 23 of 30 Minus 2 Days of Writing, the creative writing challenge that 4 out of 5 Jabberwockies agree is the reason for vorpal swords. Today’s prompt is – absurdly enough – Absurd, and you can thank Tami for this one. Don’t forget to link up at the end of this post if you participated in today’s challenge before the borogoves were all mimsy.
I’m Pretty Sure Lewis Would Get It
I put the car in reverse and started driving down the highway. It was a perfect day to spend at the beach. I’d texted my boon companion, Goose, the night before asking him if he’d care to join me. His return fax confirmed his presence.
Which is how we came to be at this starting point, free-styling our way down the highway towards the beach – me at the helm of the ship, steering by the light of the moon and stars; G. safely secured in the seat beside me wearing a raspberry beret at a particularly jaunty angle that inspired in me simultaneous feelings of envy and the desire to mock him mercilessly. His plush purple velour scarf peeked out from the collar of his parka.
I asked him if he wanted to borrow my gloves, but of course he laughed off the suggestion. I was rather relieved at this several hours later when the chill of the morning started to work it’s way into said gloves. I flexed my fingers hoping to warm them and work out the stiffness that had settled there, but to no avail.
And then, as suddenly as it began, our journey was over. We’d arrived at our destination. I parked our craft right by the shoreline and excitedly stepped out onto the beach. The snow crunched wonderfully beneath my boots.
“G.,” I said as I began removing our beach gear from the trunk, “Stop dallying and get on out here!” I plopped our beach chairs side by side in the snow and then grabbed the parasol.
I laughed as I turned and planted the parasol between the two chairs. G. was sitting in one of the chairs, already in his trunks, his sunglasses casually perched on his head. Be a pal, he said, and put some sunscreen on my back, would you?
“Don’t be absurd, Grey. You’re a fucking bottle of vodka.” And the ice clinked into my empty glass. Grey Goose screamed.
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