It’s all in how you tell it.

I’m the force that saps men’s willpower and makes them succumb to temptation. Peter was supposed to be here, but I talked him into coming back to bed, and left him sleeping. So, you must deal with me instead of the reasonable one!

…okay, that intro sounds entirely wrong genre for the actual conversation.

Switching gears and genres:
I woke to a shake of my right shoulder, and tones of exhaustion and bemusement. “Love, you fell asleep again instead of drinking your tea. You’re supposed to be at the gym right now. Better let your trainer know you’re not making it in.”

I reached for the phone and blearily typed out a text, then looked up at him. “You look tired. Come back to bed?”

He hesitated, wavering between obligation and a strong desire to rack out. “I have too much to do…”

I applied the power of pre-coffee logic. “Since I’m not going to rack pull at the gym, you should make me do all the heavy lifting. That way I get all my exercise in, and spare you the bending.”

“Very well.”

Of course, if I wanted to try to set it in cozy mystery, I’d start it instead with:

And all was quiet and well until the cat went from happy to be sleeping between us to suddenly remembering that a speck of white china gleamed from the bottom of the food bowl like a harbinger of famine and fimbulwinter, and needed to be immediately covered in kibble.

Yep, it’s all in how you tell it. How would you cast your morning?

17 thoughts on “It’s all in how you tell it.

  1. “I woke quickly as the man with the gun crashed into my home.” 😆

    Obviously, that didn’t happen but might make a good starting line for a certain type of story. 😉

  2. Fumbles for watch . . . 7:38 . . . drat, and I promised pancakes for breakfast so that’s two reasons i can’t sleep in any later. (This part of my husband retiring I like. 7:30 is getting up early.) So, donation bags out to the curb only a little late. Pull out the big griddle, and almond flour to add to the pancake mix so I can pretend it’s a little bit lo carb . . .

  3. The lightning glittered across the windows, again and again, like a toddler with a flashlight. Long seconds later, the rolls of thunder began. The baby snorted, shifted himself, and went back to sleep-nursing; his mother scrubbed at her eyes and realized they were not focusing because she’d neglected to put on her glasses.
    That corrected, the baby asleep enough to be swaddled and tucked into the nook of her arm, she descended– into a scene of chaos. Cereal coated the floor, spotted with jewel-like sippy cups in various conditions of drinkable; dirty dishes towered on the table, stacked haphazardly with silverware, straws and legos, and the book shelves were studded with half eaten biscuits.
    The next round of rolling thunder had no lighting as its source.

    1. (Nobody died, though you wouldn’t know that from the wails of agony as I pointed out to the “I put my ice cream dish away, see, I stuck it on the chair under the table” individual that ice cream is not a right.)

      1. But did somebody Wish that they had died after you finished with them? [Very Big Crazy Grin]

          1. If you really want drama, combine a teenage girl with a pre-menopausal mom….YIKES AND RUN AWAY!!! (No comment if that ever leads to 8+ hour fights….)
            (BTW, I guess I was lucky growing up, because the girls were on both ends (oldest/youngest), and my parents were smart enough to have kids early, not waiting until their 30’s).

  4. Honk! Screeeeeech!

    Thirty second later, brilliant scarlet and cobalt lights flashed and a siren cut the pre-dawn air. I smiled as the nice officer pulled over the red-runner. Why cast a curse when car-karma moves faster? Besides, I’d need all my energy for later in the morning. Indeed, the great entry portal remained locked when I arrived, forcing me to invoke a Klaves-Portus charm. It was going to be one of THOSE Fridays at St. Simon Magus School.

    1. In what sort of universe is “Simon Magus” a Saint?

      The legends that I’ve read about him don’t make him any sort of Saint. 😀

      1. It’s a bit of a trope in some fantasy books that in an alternate reality, Simon Magus became the patron saint of magic workers.

        1. Ah yes.

          It’d work especially if one went only from the Scriptural reference not some of the later references.

          Of course, in a world where magic works, some of the later references might have been different.

        2. Ah.

          Now if you read Winter’s Curse, you will find that I much more sensibly made the Magi the patron saints of wizards. 0:)

  5. And for today’s weird writing bit, I was struggling with a plot the antagonist is running. It seemed like what they would do, but for a character who is very devious and not stupid. it also felt very phoned in, yet every time I tried to figure out complications, they sort of bounced.

    It finally hit me why: they don’t actually care if they ‘win’ or not. Both outcomes fulfill their goals, and to a certain extent, losing is the happier option for them.

    So, they just need to scheme hard enough to look like they are serious about it, but going complete Moriority would be a counter productive waste of time.

  6. The 75 year old male and the five year old male were discussing life and legos. Specifically Star Wars Legos. Was it or wasn’t it Chewbacca? The 65 year old female who knows it isn’t Chewbacca but doesn’t know who it is, listened and shifted the baby keeping her out of grabbing range. The younger male said “It’s a Wookie but not Chewbacca.”
    The older one said, “What is the difference?”
    After a long pause the five year old said, “Well, Wookie is the species and Chewbacca is just a name.”
    I’ve spent all morning telling this tale to anyone who will listen. ; )

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