A new prompt. Just what you needed, right? I’m calling this prompt “Storytime.” Each week I will ask you to tell a story about a specific topic. You can write about the actual event as it happened in real life, or you can create a fictional telling of that event. It’s your call.
Once you publish your post, create a pingback to this post, or paste a link to your post in a reply if you’re not on WordPress. To get the ball rolling, I’ll go first. Here goes.
In recognition of the fact that I just conceived this prompt:
Tell the story about the night (or day) you were conceived.
That summer night was particularly hot and humid. Their tenement does not have air conditioning and the several window fans are simply circulating the hot, thick, damp air.
It was close to midnight when Anthony, who could have been a Marlon Brando body double, arrives home from his job as a longshoreman. It’s stifling hot in their apartment, and he dabs the perspiration from his brow with a handkerchief he pulls from the back pocket of his jeans.
His two young daughters are sleeping in their bedroom at the other end of the apartment. He turns out the few remaining lights in the flat as he quietly makes his way to the bedroom he shares with his wife.
She is lying on the bed, wearing only a thin nightgown that clings to her damp skin, covers thrown aside due to the heat. She’s been unable to sleep because it’s just too damn hot.
As Anthony walks into the bedroom, he starts to shut the door. “Leave it open,” she commands. “Closing the door will make it even hotter in here.”
He leaves the door ajar and walks over to the bed. “Did I wake you, babe?” he asks.
“No,” she answers softly. “Who can sleep when it’s this hot?” He sits down on his side of the bed, removes his shoes, socks, and undershirt, and takes off his pants, which he drapes over the bed’s footboard.
He lies down next to his wife, wearing only his boxers. Not wanting his body heat to make her even more uncomfortable, he avoids touching her.
It’s so hot and steamy in the apartment, that, despite both being exhausted, neither of them seems able to sleep.
“You stayed late tonight,” she said, breaking the silence.
“There’s a ship leaving at the crack of dawn and we had to get her all loaded up and locked down tight.”
“Yeah,” she quips. “I bet you got her all loaded up and locked down tight, all right.”
“Babe, you know you’re the only dame I want to load up and lock down,” he responds, leaning in toward her as he plants a tender kiss on her soft, receptive lips.
She moves a hand to his belly and slips it under the waistband of his boxers. “Take off those shorts, you sexy stevedore,” she teases. “It’s too goddam hot to sleep and it’s even too hot for these night clothes.”
She sits up on the bed and pulls her thin nightie up and over her head. He can see the glistening perspiration covering her sinewy body reflected in the glow from the street lights coming in through the open window.
“So why don’t you slide on over here and load up your cargo into my hold,” she suggests in a deep, throaty voice.
This post is total fantasy. I can’t say that anything even remotely like this scene actually happened. The dialogue is pure fiction, my father wasn’t a stevedore, and in no way did he resemble Marlon Brando.
But suffice it to say that whatever did happen that night, nine months later I was born.
Okay. Your turn.