Written for the Daily Flash Fiction Challenge with a word limit of 300.
The prompts: This story must contain the words: invisible, ceiling and quilt
Different Interests
Five-thousand, three-hundred and twenty-two.
Charlie could not have been more certain. That was the exact number of little holes in the ceiling tile directly over his head.
With a burst of creativity, he decided to count the holes on the next tile over. Merciful sleep soon followed.
Husbands watched in anticipation as Charlie’s chair rocked back near the tipping point. A long string of drool hanging from the corner of Charlie’s mouth added to the suspense.
What would hit the floor first, Charlie or the spittle?
Money changed hands amongst the back row inhabitants, all of whom knew the ceiling dot-count. This was the most exciting thing that had happened for an eternity – the exact length of time they’d spent in the quilt making seminar their wives had tricked them into attending.
It was the lowest kind of marketing ploy - Bring your husband and get half off the price of admission.
Now, everyone in the room with a Y chromosome was fixated on Charlie.
The chair teetered as the drool extended impossibly long towards the floor. A brief snort followed by a short slurp caused the chair to shudder while the thin thread of spit backtracked a good six inches. The odds had changed and more money passed from hand to hand.
Suddenly, an especially aggressive bout of flatulence caused Charlie’s pants to temporarily inflate. His center of gravity shifted and over he went. The sound of him hitting the floor was loud enough to cause the keynote speaker, Quilt-Master Martha, to pause and look to the back of the room. The heads of the wives in the auditorium swiveled back accusingly.
Every husband, save one, was intently looking forward, as if hanging on Martha’s every word.
Every husband except Charlie who was hoping he had somehow become invisible.
Word count 300
The prompts: This story must contain the words: invisible, ceiling and quilt
Different Interests
Five-thousand, three-hundred and twenty-two.
Charlie could not have been more certain. That was the exact number of little holes in the ceiling tile directly over his head.
With a burst of creativity, he decided to count the holes on the next tile over. Merciful sleep soon followed.
Husbands watched in anticipation as Charlie’s chair rocked back near the tipping point. A long string of drool hanging from the corner of Charlie’s mouth added to the suspense.
What would hit the floor first, Charlie or the spittle?
Money changed hands amongst the back row inhabitants, all of whom knew the ceiling dot-count. This was the most exciting thing that had happened for an eternity – the exact length of time they’d spent in the quilt making seminar their wives had tricked them into attending.
It was the lowest kind of marketing ploy - Bring your husband and get half off the price of admission.
Now, everyone in the room with a Y chromosome was fixated on Charlie.
The chair teetered as the drool extended impossibly long towards the floor. A brief snort followed by a short slurp caused the chair to shudder while the thin thread of spit backtracked a good six inches. The odds had changed and more money passed from hand to hand.
Suddenly, an especially aggressive bout of flatulence caused Charlie’s pants to temporarily inflate. His center of gravity shifted and over he went. The sound of him hitting the floor was loud enough to cause the keynote speaker, Quilt-Master Martha, to pause and look to the back of the room. The heads of the wives in the auditorium swiveled back accusingly.
Every husband, save one, was intently looking forward, as if hanging on Martha’s every word.
Every husband except Charlie who was hoping he had somehow become invisible.
Word count 300
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