Happy Fred, Bitter Fred

A glacial erratic in a New Jersey park.

February's issue of The Writer magazine included 40 writing prompts. I've never used prompts before as a way to encourage daily writing, but these prompts were so interesting and imaginative I decided to try it. I'll be posting excerpts from my prompts as I write them.

Here's the first prompt: Describe an event from a character's point of view. Then write about the event again from a different emotional point of view.

So I wrote a short piece about Happy Fred, thrilled to be leaving his dead-end museum job. Then I wrote about Bitter Fred.

The Bitter Fred

“I’m quitting my job,” I told Melanie as we stood in line at the buffet, raising my voice slightly to be heard over the pompous chatter around us.

Melanie glanced around, but she had nothing to worry about – the Green Harbor Geology Museum’s biggest donors didn’t care what a lowly museum fundraiser had to say. They couldn’t even be bothered to listen to the museum’s director during the award presentation – they just chattered on and on, ignoring the activity onstage. Those people heard nobody but themselves.

“How can you?” Melanie asked. “What will the museum do without you? You raised $439,000 with your last campaign!”

“And what did that get me?” I asked. “I called and emailed people for months, begging, pleading, wheedling, listening to on-hold music and lies from secretaries. And what did the director say when I presented him with the total — $439,237? He asked, ‘What, you couldn’t reach an even 450?’”

“What will you do?” Melanie asked, sounding nervous, as well she might. With me gone, she’d be the one tapped to run my campaigns with no extra pay until they found a replacement. Knowing the Green Harbor Geology Museum management, that would be months.

“I have my rock band,” I said, sprinkling cheese on the Conchiglie. “Now that we have a drummer, I can book some gigs. Those contacts I’ve cultivated for the museum will benefit me now.”

“What will you live on?”

“I have savings,” I said airily, walking over to a free table. Melanie followed, looking a bit pale.

“Really?” she asked. She knew what I was paid, and it wasn’t much.

I knew she suspected that $439,237 wasn't the real total I raised, that some of the humiliating groveling would benefit me, not the museum. My conscience didn’t trouble me – why should I respect the wishes of those self-indulgent, careless donors? They didn’t care about geology, they just wanted to brag and sound smart.

I took a big swallow of red wine and scanned the room, a room full of fools. “Come see us sometime. We’re the Glacial Erratics and my talent and connections will help us hit the big time.”

Melanie looked at me levelly. “I don’t know what your scheme is, but it won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re self-absorbed and careless. That name proves it.”

“The Glacial Erratics? The name suits me perfectly. It suits our band, which differs greatly from its native environment,” I said.

“Oh Fred,” she sighed. “It’s always the surface with you. You never dig deeper. And what is the Latin root for erratic?”

“No idea,” I said, trying not to roll my eyes.

“It comes from the verb erro: to go astray. To err.”

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