Welcome to the eighth post of the “12 Days of Fiction” series, where a volunteer writer is assigned a random writing prompt from the song “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” All writing on the prompt must be done in 10 minutes or less.
Volunteers have been cultivated through the original 12 Days of Fiction invite, the Catholic Writers Guild members-only Facebook page, my Facebook page… and I think that’s it. Thanks to Random.org for the random number generator.
And now I give you “Eight Maids A-Milking” by Dan Costello of Catholic Writers Guild fame! Thank you, Dan! Wishing you even more happy improv in the future.
Eight Maids a Milking
Callie sat picking at the ruffles on her dress. Who in the name of heaven likes pink taffeta? Who wears it but brides maids? This one isn’t even going into the collection, she thought.
Stacy leaned over, “We are burning these dresses, right?”
“Oh, so burning,” Karen, another bridesmaid, said.
There were eight of them. Eight bridesmaids, some who had been lifelong friends and some who were work friends of the bride. The one on the other end, Michelle? She seemed nice. She might make the group. The group had been expanding and contracting since 6th grade camp. They were currently five. The bride and her handmaids. The other three being tortured by these dresses were people from Marie’s job. The ushers were husbands, boyfriends and scattered friends of the groom.
Callie was fast learning to hate weddings. She was the last one getting married. She looked at her date. A last minute filler. Nope, nothing there. Maybe Prince Charming would show some other time. She glanced at her date again. Maybe the Prince was a frog? No. Not that frog. Jack was nice, but.
Oh. No. Was that her ex? Here she was in a row of eight women in ugly dresses and Tom showed up? How did he know she was here? Why was he talking to her date? They were shaking hands? What is this, a hand off?” He’s coming over? Callie looked around trying to appear nonchalant.
What do I do now? True she missed him, but what kind of setup was this? What do I do? She cried. Where do I go from here?
Tom stepped up, “Hi, Callie. Want to dance?”