“Wow! Look at that!” Arny exclaimed, pointing at the painting on the wall.
“A phone booth. English.”
“No, I meant Dr. Who.”
“Who?” Mike asked. “What’s a Doctor have to do with it?”
“It’s a police call box. 1928ish. Had nothing to do with any Doctor.”
“NO! Dr. Who! The British show!”
“Right. A British Call Box. I don’t think they have them any more. No need really,” Mike shrugged. “Phones and all.”
Arny rolled his eyes. “It’s Tardis, Dr Who’s time machine.”
“The police used them. Not Doctors.”
“For crying out loud!” Arny cried. “Dr. Who. A British TV show! He travels through space and time in a call box named Tardis.”
Mike sighed, shook his head. “You and your funny imagination.”
Arny threw up his hands. “Hopeless!” He walked away.
“Hey,” Mike called, hurrying after him. “Speaking of TV shows….. did you hear about that sci-fi show where some weird Timelord roams the Universe?”
Arny stopped, turned slowly. “No,” he said flatly, “never heard of that one.”
Paused. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
He balanced on the flat rock, looking into the uppermost round hole.
“What?” Becky asked, pulling on the tattered hem of his shirt. “What?” Anxious. Excited.
“What! Let me see!” She pulled his shirt again.
“They’re wearing pink tutus.”
“I don’t believe you.” Hands on hips.
He stepped down. “Look for yourself.”
Becky scrambled up onto the rock, standing on tip-toes to peer into the hole.
“I don’t see anything,” she complained.
She squinted her eyes. Squealed. “I see them! I see them!”
“What?” He pushed up beside her. “Where!”
Laughing, she jumped down and ran away.
Feel free to join in and respond to the prompt. Please try to keep your response under 300 words. If you reply, I will re-blog your post to my site (sometimes I am slow, but I get there).
You know the ones. Hot shots in hot suits with million dollar portfolios given to them by their fathers; diamond studded watches, again, given by fathers. Fast-speak their second language. Double tongued, triple tongued, split tongued. I’ve also known some who couldn’t call a pig out of a holler.
Until they open their mouths and out comes this high Barbie voice or some dumb-ass shit even a three-year old knows is crap. Some, I suspect, are secretly insane. Or not so secretly.
He was one of the insane ones so, when the end came, it came fast. Flaming out like a shooting star, hitting the atmosphere and burning away. Never knew what hit him, not for the rest of his life.
Some of us, you know, flash pretty damn bright even after we speak.
And that corner office, it fits me just fine.