Three Minutes Making an Excuse

Normanday #54: My dog ate my pencil and my pen and all my paper.

Write for three minutes…

…explaining why you didn't do your homework.

Email what you wrote to woof at bright dot net by the end of the day November 18 (put “Norman Would be a Straight-A Student if He Went to School” in the subject line). I’ll post as many of my favorite entries as I want next Monday. Include your first name (or, even better, use a pen name) and age (unless you’re tortoise-old). If you’re a published children’s or young adult writer, include a biography to be posted with your entry.

Here is the single entry from last week when I asked you to write for three minutes about…

…what you saw when you looked into that crystal ball.

Tren Rewy Steb

The crystal ball is foggy, like there’s a candle in there and somebody just blew it out. I think it’s starting to clear. I catch myself blowing a little, and wafting my hand at it, as if I can push the fog away. I want to see what’s in there. At least, I do at first. But then I get nervous. What if I don’t like what I see? Is the crystal ball all-knowing? Is what I’m about to see what will definitely happen? There’s an image forming, coming into view so slowly. I turn away, afraid it’s going to be something bad. I consider getting up and leaving, but I don’t want to be rude. The fortune teller has been nice. Plus, I gave her my last ten dollars. I might as well get my money’s worth. When I look this time, the fog is totally gone. I see myself sitting at a desk, in front of a computer screen. I’m wearing a long-sleeved white shirt. Well, there’s one thing different next year—a new shirt. I’m typing. There’s a can of pop next to me. I reach for it and my hand fumbles. The can tips over. Brown liquid spills out of it and soaks into my shirt. Rats.

Three Minutes in the Future

Normanday #53: Maybe his trunk is cold.

Write for three minutes about…

…what you saw when you looked into that crystal ball.

Email what you wrote to woof at bright dot net by the end of the day November 11 (put “Norman Wears Argyle Socks On Tuesdays” in the subject line). I’ll post as many of my favorite entries as I want next Monday. Include your first name (or, even better, use a pen name) and age (unless you’re tortoise-old). If you’re a published children’s or young adult writer, include a biography to be posted with your entry.

Here are the entries from last week when I asked you to write for three minutes about…

…the elephant rummaging in your sock drawer.

Bigfoot

The elephant opened the drawers, one by one, searching for…what was it he had been looking for? He couldn’t remember. Was it car keys? No, that wasn’t right. He didn’t have a car. Besides, he’d let his license expire. He had a bad taste in his mouth. Had he remembered to brush his teeth this morning? Maybe he had been looking for a breath mint. No, that didn’t sound right. He closed the drawer stuffed with old receipts, coupons, and birthday cards he kept on hand to send to his friends. There were a lot of those because, unfortunately, he hardly ever remembered to send them, and when he did, he never seemed to have any stamps. Maybe what I’m looking for is in this drawer, he thought. He pulled it open. In it were socks. Purple socks, red ones, socks with tiny daisies, thick wool socks, and cotton, too. The elephant was perplexed. Where did these socks come from? He didn’t remember buying them. He definitely didn’t remember rolling them into neat little balls and lining the drawer with them. Nope. Not a single flash of recognition for any of the socks, not even the pair with zebra stripes. What would he even need socks for? He was an elephant. Uh-oh. These weren’t his socks. These weren’t his drawers. This wasn’t his house. He didn’t live in a house. He was an elephant. Where was he and how did he get here? If only he could remember.