Fiction Prompt#1
My mother never
My mother never went to any of the meetings.
She preferred to sit at the Starbucks across the street, on the patio and smoke cigarette after cigarette until the two hours she was supposed to be in AA were up. When I expressed shock at her truancy, she shrugged and said, Ive got it worked out, and looked squarely at me. I panicked. Would it be up to me to lie to her parole officer, drag her out of bars at three am, forge her signature on my report cards if she was still slumped, half in and half out of bed at nine on Monday mornings? I guess the reason I started going to the meetings myself was that I thought by doing such I could stand as a barrier to prevent her from her failing again and again. I sat on rusted tapioca-colored folding chairs with Eileen (my mothers maiden name) printed on one of those flimsy, sticky name tags, drinking black coffee (she drank it more often than she drank water), and sharing cigarettes during break with a balding, sweating CPA named Stan, whose corpulent body and loose egg-colored skin I imagined hanging like so many folds of melting taffy beneath his skintight pit-stained pinstriped shirts. I did this every Thursday, at seven pm, for two years.
My mother never
My mother never went to any of the meetings.
She preferred to sit at the Starbucks across the street, on the patio and smoke cigarette after cigarette until the two hours she was supposed to be in AA were up. When I expressed shock at her truancy, she shrugged and said, Ive got it worked out, and looked squarely at me. I panicked. Would it be up to me to lie to her parole officer, drag her out of bars at three am, forge her signature on my report cards if she was still slumped, half in and half out of bed at nine on Monday mornings? I guess the reason I started going to the meetings myself was that I thought by doing such I could stand as a barrier to prevent her from her failing again and again. I sat on rusted tapioca-colored folding chairs with Eileen (my mothers maiden name) printed on one of those flimsy, sticky name tags, drinking black coffee (she drank it more often than she drank water), and sharing cigarettes during break with a balding, sweating CPA named Stan, whose corpulent body and loose egg-colored skin I imagined hanging like so many folds of melting taffy beneath his skintight pit-stained pinstriped shirts. I did this every Thursday, at seven pm, for two years.
What's the prompt from? A class?