This is a Daily Prompt post that will freak you out. Or not.
Write about anything you’d like. Somewhere in your post, include the sentence, “I heard the car door slam, and immediately looked at the clock.”
The sky grew dark as I pulled up to the house. There was only one car here already. Just the one. The clouds were moving quickly across the sky, as though they were late for an appointment on the other side of the country. Strangely, the wind wasn’t strong down here on the ground.
I thought I heard another car pull up – an electric car, it turned out. I heard the car door slam, and immediately looked at the clock. It was time. I got out, closing my door quietly as I did. She was walking towards me, slowly, but she stopped at the sidewalk, turned, and walked towards the house. I followed her.
She waited for me on the porch at the top of the stairs. I looked at her wistfully, or as full of wist as I could muster, given the circumstances. I shook her hand and held the door for her as we both walked inside. There were already a few people in the library of the house, waiting anxiously for this whole thing to start. They all looked as sad and somber as I imagined they would.
“Ah, Mr. Fruitrollup, Ms. Butterball. Glad you could join us. Please take one of these each out of the box. Or, each of you take one of these out of the box, and put it on, please.” We did as he instructed. After all, he was the ringmaster.
“We are all gathered here today to celebrate the life of a man who was a part of all of us. Not in a cannibalistic way! No, not that. But in our hearts and minds. And we will mourn his death as we celebrated his life. With happiness. That’s what he would have wanted. At least, according to this letter he wrote me six years ago. It says :
If I die, have a party. It’s what I want. Celebrate my death with happiness. Not happiness that I’m dead, but happiness that we are a big family, who love and support each other. To repeat, mourn my death with happiness. Have a party! And just so it’s clear, I will the car to Mr. Fruitrollup. He’s my son. A long time ago, Shalala Boomdier the Freak on a Trapeze and I had a thing, and he was our son. We didn’t tell anyone because we forgot. Oops! We got so busy! But I think he knows, because he’s called me Dad his entire life. Okay, I’m on the toilet and it’s time to wipe, so I’m ending this letter.
Bajingo The Clown
Everyone looked at me then. I took Ms. Butterball by the hand and planted a huge smackerel right on her lips. She smiled, but her lips still shocked me a little bit. I knew she loved me by how much restraint she was showing – my hair wasn’t even standing on end. I looked at everyone, smiled, and waved for them to follow me.
We poured out of the house and went right to the car. I proudly held the door open as everyone got in. Yes, everyone. All 25 people. It was that kind of car. And I held the front door open for Ms. Butterball. She was positively beaming, by which I mean light was streaming off of her skin. I walked around the car, got in the driver’s seat, started it up, and revved the engine. I put it in gear, stepped on the gas, and on we drove into the next century.
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