Daily Prompt · Random Scribbles · writing

Daily Prompt: The Wanderer

Daily Prompt: The Wanderer

Tell us about the top five places you’ve always wanted to visit. GO!


Phil pushed open the door at the travel agent and went inside. The atmosphere evoked professionalism and a sense of calm. Plush carpet covered the floors. Travel posters covered the walls, depicting exotic locations – they were designed to tempt the customer.

A middle aged woman was seated behind the only occupied desk. She was on the phone. Receiver in one hand and eyeglasses twirling in the other, she wore her hair in a manner that suggested a recent visit to the stylist. The jacket she wore over her white blouse matched the colour of the office walls, a pastel green teal. She waved to him and signaled that it was OK to sit.

Phil nodded his head but chose to study the posters. Singapore, Buenos Aires, Kenya, and London all beckoned from their respective showcases. Phil took the time to study them all, while he eavesdropped on the one sided conversation that he could hear.

“Ok, then. Sounds good to me… I will wait for your fax. Uh huh… thanks.” He listened to her set the phone back on the cradle and spun towards her and, away from the poster when she addressed him. “What may I do for you today sir?” She asked. She came around the desk with her right hand extended to shake.

“These are very interesting posters and I would love to visit all these places. But today, I’m mostly interested in booking a trip to Iceland,” he told her as they both headed back towards her desk.

“Iceland? How exciting, we don’t often have people here looking to go to Reykjavík. Do you have family there? Or, are you perhaps an adventurer?”

“Neither, I’m afraid,” Phil responded. “I want to meet women.”

“Really? In Iceland? I’m not sure I understand. Wouldn’t it be a lot simpler to meet women right here in Omaha?”

“That’s not what I hear.” Phil said, stone-faced. “My buddies at the lodge told me that there is a single woman at the base of every tree in Iceland. They said you can just walk through the forest and take your pick. That sounds ideal to me. Say, do you know what Icelandic women look like? I guess it doesn’t really matter. If I get there early enough in the season there should be plenty to choose from. I shouldn’t have any problem finding one I like.”

“I’m afraid your buddies are pulling your leg. There’s not a lot of forests in Iceland.”

Phil looked at the nameplate on her desk, ‘Irene’. “How do you know that Irene?”

“I’m a travel agent,” she replied, “It’s my job to know things like that.” She smiled.

Phil looked at her left hand, ‘no ring’. “Can you get away from here for a while Irene? I need to learn more about Iceland. There’s a coffee shop just across the street… my treat.”

Irene tilted her head to the side and studied Phil. He held his breath in anticipation. Time seemed to stand still. After what seemed like forever, she nodded her head and said, “Sure.” She grabbed her keys from the top desk drawer and headed to the front door. She set the little clock to say “Back in 20 minutes” and locked up.


Daily Prompt · Random Scribbles · writing

Daily Prompt: Showdown at Big Sky

Showdown at Big Sky

How do you handle conflict? Boldly and directly? Or, do you prefer a more subtle approach?


“I don’t want to discuss this anymore and I’m not going to fight with you” Roger said, “I’ve got to get ready for work.” He went into the bath and closed the door. She heard the shower start up and begin to run.

She sat on the edge of the bed. Roger was such an ass. This was his standard play when they quarreled. He simply would not argue. He would quit and assume that his will prevailed. She hated him for that. She knew he would come out of the bath all showered and shaved, smelling good; and pretend that nothing had happened. She hated him for that too. She would let him do it, she always did. She hated herself for that.

Not this time, she thought. You’re not getting off that easy this time. She stood, moved around the bed and opened Roger’s bedside table drawer. There it sat, Roger’s pistol. A 22 caliber handgun that was small and lightweight. It felt good in her hand. She checked it was loaded and flicked the safety off.

The curtain was drawn across the shower but she could see the shadow Roger cast as he washed his hair. That was another thing she hated. Roger had more lotions, pomades, and balms for his hair than any man had a right to. He was very vain about his hair. Slipping out of her nightdress she held the pistol behind her back and moved the curtain aside. She stepped into the shower. Roger saw her and smiled. He did not see the 22.

“You’re right Roger,” she said, “I don’t want to argue either. I’m sorry.” He reached for her as she pointed the pistol at his eye and squeezed the trigger. The bullet must have ricocheted around in his skull – no exit wound. He dropped. She looked at him and blinked. Not as noisy as she had anticipated. Not too messy either. She grabbed the shower head and rinsed the bit of gore off her right hand and forearm, placed it back and got out of the shower. She set the piece on the back of the toilet while she toweled off and put her nightclothes back on. She peeked behind the curtain into the shower. Roger lay still on the shower floor. The running shower sluiced what little blood there was down the drain. She would let it run for a while, easy cleanup.