#typefaster

[onlinetyping]

Unlock Your Typing Speed: 6 Proven Techniques to Type Faster and Boost Productivity!

In an age where speed is synonymous with success, your typing skills can make all the difference. Whether you're racing against a deadline o

Unlock Your Typing Speed: 6 Proven Techniques to Type Faster and Boost Productivity!

[rissagomes]

If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn't brood. I'd type a little faster.

Isaac Asimov

[typefasterblog-blog]

PROMPT FICTION: Nun, burlesque, peanut butter

Photo by Podnox/Wapster

“I’m nervous about this,” Maddy said. She looked it, too; her forehead was creased in the center, just like our father’s, and she’d chewed her way around the rim of the red plastic cup on her vanity counter.

“Why?” I asked—a stupid question. Yet that’s how it was with Maddy. If you didn’t ask the obvious, you’d never get an answer. At all.

Still, she glared at me over her mascara wand. “Seriously, Simon?”

I shrugged.

“Ugh.” Maddy fluttered her eyelids, which were thick with false lashes at the ends, and surveyed her reflection in the vanity mirror. “This is the first time I’ll have seen Mom since, well, you know.”

I did know. At first we’d been shocked at the news, once the laughing had stopped. Then, on the back porch, passing a joint between us, Maddy and I figured she was serious. 

“I wonder if she’s having a late-life crisis,” I wondered aloud.

“Maybe.” Maddy dragged on the joint. “Do you think she’ll make us call her—” She choked, smoke jetting from her mouth. “—Sister Bridgette?”

But, sitting there on the couch in that dressing room, which was finally and thankfully empty, neither of us were laughing. Maddy did a final swipe with her mascara wand, sighed, and sat down heavily next to me.

“Remember that time,” she said in a wistful voice, “that I ripped up your favorite Ricky Henderson baseball card and you put gum in my hair to get back at me?”

“Of course,” I said, without hesitation. “I didn’t forgive you for like a year.”

“I know, but that’s not the point. Do you remember when I went crying to Mom, all afraid she’d have to cut all my hair off or shave my head or something?”

I shook my head. “Not really.”

“Well, I did. And you know what? Mom didn’t even flinch. She just sat me down at the kitchen counter, went into the cabinet, and got out a huge jar of peanut butter, that big Costco kind Grams used to bring us.”

“I remember those.”

“Yeah.” Maddy picked at a loose sequin on her garter. “And she just lathered my head with it. For over an hour. Would you believe she got all that gum out, no problem?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “It was a miracle, and took fucking forever. She never complained, not once. So I guess if anyone’s going to be a nun, it’s Mom.”

A knock came at the door, and a short fellow with a pencil mustache stuck his head into the room.

“You’re on in 5, Daisy Fluke,” he said to Maddy. “And Charlie told me to tell you your mother’s here. Middle row, aisle seat.”

Maddy waved in thanks, gathered her skirt, and stood. “See you after, Simon.” she said. “I can’t believe Mom agreed to come to this.”

“I know.” I gave Maddy our old good-luck signal, the Scout Sign behind an A-OK.’ “Break a leg. Imagine the audience in their underwear—except for Mom. I mean, duh. And hey, you know, she’s always been pretty cool, so I bet she still is. For a nun.”

Maddy smiled, weakly. “Forget nun,” she said. “Try saint!”