It’s the Druid’s life for me

Even as a wee lad, the Druid knew his path . . .

The Druid, it seems, has always known his path . . .

A: Hey, D. What did you want to be when you grew up?

D: What did I want to be?

A: Yeah – I mean, even way back then, at the dawn of time, you had to have aspirations, dreams.

D: I take exception to that “dawn of time” comment . . . 670 was not the dawn of time, A.

A: . . .

D: Well, it isn’t.

A: Fine. It’s just slightly after the dawn of time—

D: A—

A: You’re avoiding the question, D: what did you want to be when you grew up?

D: You say that as though it’s something different than what I am, now that I am, ostensibly, grown.

A: Oh, I don’t mean that at all – but did you really know, at the tender age of-of. . . you know, this is why I had such trouble writing that book of your beginnings – you as a cherub-cheeked lad with a halo of dark curls really messes with my vision of you now.

D: . . . Your vision of me now?

A: Did you just learn how to italicize, or something?

D: Maybe. It works though.

A: Maybe.

D: (Eye roll). Regardless of your vision of me now, in my cherub-cheeked days I was made keenly aware of the gifts I possessed, despite my mother’s insistence I have what she called ‘a normal childhood’ away from the machinations of the clans and the druids. Yet, I was the second son of the clan chief, and had a gift that was prophesied before my birth.

A: And then there’s that honor thing – it didn’t let you even challenge that prophesy, did it?

Just looking at this, I can't imagine D as a child . . . it's just not right. (D as imagined by Green Embers)

Imagine, D as a child – all cherub-cheeks and curls. No, I can’t do it, either.
(D as imagined by Green Embers)

D: You call it honor, but I would say it is integrity. It would not have allowed me to challenge my fate, even if I had wanted to. I did not want to, A. The gods touched my soul – it was my privilege to receive the training necessary to use their gifts. I was born with the responsibility to lead, and it was an honor to fight at the side of my brother and father in defense of our people.

Although, I will say that I veered from the path the gods decreed more often than I care to admit – I am human, failingly so. Yet, even my wanderings were necessary to becoming the man gods insist I become.

A: Indeed –  frankly, you left me exhausted after I wrote just a fraction of you story. You’re a little intense, D. But, I have a question.

D: Just one?

A: How do I fit into this path of yours?

D: I’m still fairly certain you’re my punishment for some slight against the gods, although its origins continue to elude me.

A: Nice.

D: I do my best. But enough about me, what did you want to be when you grew up?

A: Indiana Jones.

D: . . .

A: Hey, you asked.

D: Indeed I did – and with that, folks, we bid you a fond adieu. It’s A’s birthday today, and I’m sure she’s going to post some of her hijinks on that twittering bird and friendly facebooking – keep a weather eye on the horizon, and it will all be over soon!

A: Cheers, D. And thank you all for reading – have a great weekend!

***

For The Daily Post’s prompt: Futures Past.

Dancing in the Mind of the Beholder

This is for two WordPress Daily Prompts, yesterday’s: Mind Reader, and today’s: Game of Groans

***

I see a lot of people. I work in customer service, and moonlight in reception. It’s a people-palooza.

But this person – this person sparked my imagination.

We’ll call her Joan.

***

Our reception area looks nothing like this - I kind of wish it did, however. Photo courtesy Google images, marked for noncommercial reuse.

Our reception area looks nothing like this – I kind of wish it did, however. Photo courtesy Google images, marked for noncommercial reuse.

Oh my gosh, what am I doing? The door is locked – the door is always locked.

Did she see me yanking on the handle like an idiot? I hope not.

Damn, she’s opening the door. She saw.

I play with the keys in my hand and give the receptionist what I hope is a grateful grin.

“Thanks – I bet you have to do that a lot. Must be kind of fun watching people fumble.”

She gives me a noncommittal shrug. Is she French?

“It’s cruel,” she says. Definitely not French.  “People shouldn’t have to think that hard before they even get into work. By the way, I like what you did to your hair.”

My hair? She noticed my new haircut? I’ve only been here three days. How does she notice my hair? I bet she’s trying to make me feel better about forgetting the door is locked.

“My advice—“

Holy cow, she’s still talking. I must have really looked like a moron. Oh wait, I was staring at her for noticing my hair. Is my mouth open?

“Carry a lot of bags with you – I always open the door for bag carriers.”

She motions with her handy-dandy door-opener. I don’t even know who it is that’s coming through the door – I haven’t had my tour yet – but he’s got a ton of bags.

Like grocery bags. Like, he must be feeding his entire department from those bags.

I eye the receptionist and she nods at me.

Like magic, the doors open. Bag-holder-guy waltzes in.

I stare. “Bags?”

She nods back solemnly. “Bags.”

Huh. This might be worth pursuing. Go on. Talk to her. Be able to tell your mother you’ve actually made a friend.

“So, how about that “Dancing with the Stars” finale, huh?”

I’m not sure, but I think she’s developed a twitch. “Was it good?” she asks.

Was it good? Was it good?! It was the most spectacular show ever. That team nailed every single one of their routines all season! Was it good??!!

“Don’t you watch?”

“I don’t watch TV – although, I think I’ve seen an episode or two a few years ago.”

“Well, do you like music?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you like dancing?”

“I always wanted to learn ballroom – I’m just not a fan of the confessional, reality TV show side of it.”

“It’s not nearly as bad as “American Idol” – and you can, I don’t know, read a book or do your laundry when they’re telling-all if you want to. You really should watch.”

Her resolve is crumbling. I can tell. She’s an agreeable sort – either that or she just wants to get me out of her face. Ha! Not going to happen. This will teach her to be nice to newbies.

“I mean it. You should watch. I tell you what – if I can remember to swipe my key fob for the rest of the summer, you have to watch a season.”

“But I–”

“You can watch it online.”

Ha. That got her.

”All right. But you can’t take advantage of the bag thing – that’s cheating.”

“Deal.”

Look at that – it’s not even 8:30 and I’ve made a new friend and got a convert to DWTS. Not bad for the new girl.

***

D: None of that actually happened, did it?

A: Not exactly.

D: There’s no Joan, is there?

A: Not really – Joan is an amalgamation of a few people I see from my perch in reception. This was all for the WordPress prompts for yesterday and today – write from a stranger’s point of view, and write a ‘pro’ piece about a bit of popular culture you don’t actually like.

D: You don’t like “Dancing with the Stars?”

A: Not really – The dancing’s okay—

D: Okay? Okay?! A, the dancing is phenomenal – taking stars that might have 2 left feet and turning them into dancing machines is a joy to watch.

A: If you say so – I prefer scripted drama to the reality TV/human variety, however.

D: I don’t think I know who you are anymore, A.

A: Really?

D: Joan was right. You need to watch. And not just when the new season comes on. You need to watch right now.

A: But I – But Joan —

D: Now.

A: Oh boy. Put the salad tongs down, D. We’ve talked about this.

D: Will you watch?

A: You know those aren’t really threatening, don’t you?

D: Will you watch?

A: (Eye roll) Oh for heaven’s sake, yes. I’ll watch. But I’m making no promises that I’ll like it – or continue to watch.

D: That’s okay, then.

A: (Sigh) The things I put up with in order to have an agreeable muse and blog topics. . .

D: Admit it. You’d be bored without me.

A: I’d have salad tongs without you.

D: . . .

A: Whatever I say, it’s just going to go straight to your head, so can we just bid the good people adieu?

D: Ha! You admitted it!

A: Stop looking smug. Thank you all for stopping by, and have a wonderful holiday weekend, everyone!

He Pleads . . . Fireworks?

Guess who this guilty pleasure belongs to...

Guess who this guilty pleasure belongs to…

A: Come on, D. Spill it. What are your guilty pleasures?

D: A, I’m as close to an ascetic as one can be.

A: That is a load of malarkey – you’ve taken ‘warrior-priest’ to a whole new extreme. Besides, I happen to know your heart still beats in double-time whenever Mairead sidles by.

D: Perhaps – but that is not something for which I feel guilty. Besides, it is not yet our time – and I shall not be some faithless cad–

A: Okay, okay – God, you are so pedantic. What about other things?

D: Other things?

A: You know, food. TV shows. Books. Your love of cats, even though you keep decrying the lack of war hounds in my home?

D: I never—

A: I didn’t say those were true – except for the last one. Ha!

D: One can love cats and hounds, A. I appreciate cats for their mystery.

A: Right. And not for their fluffy bellies, and their ecstatic chasing of the little red dot.

D: Oh. You heard that, did you?

A: You are in my head. I hear everything.

D: Oh.

A: Yeah. Okay, so we have cats on the list. Anything else?

D: I didn’t say—

A: Anything else?

D: You are relentless.

A: You aren’t answering the question.

D: Fine. Katy Perry songs.

A: Katy Perry?

D: Yes.

A: . . . Forgive me, I’m still trying to wrap my head around this one. I mean, I enjoy her songs and all, but um, it just doesn’t jive with my vision of—

D: Did you know you’re a firework, A?

A: Wow.

D: And, A. You’re original, cannot be replaced.

A: Okay, you can stop now. I can see why maybe you’d consider that a guilty–

D: Hey – you know what, A? I’m not ashamed. I’m proud. You hear that world? Proud!

A: . . . Okay then. Well, on that note—

D: Not so fast, A – what is your guilty pleasure?

A: Mine? Oh, well. I don’t–

D: Come on, spill it.

A: Fine. Potatoes.

D: Potatoes?

Yep. Potatoes. I even go so far as to grow them!

Yep. Potatoes. I even go so far as to grow them!

A: Yeah. Potato in all its delicious, carby forms: chips, crisps, fries. Baked, mashed, twice-baked breaded and deep-fried. Scalloped and creamed, boiled alive—

D: Okay, okay, I get it – please stop waxing lyrical about potatoes.

A: Oh come on, D – I think I feel a poem coming on!

D: And on that note, we are definitely going to bid you all a fond farewell!

A: Do you have a guilty pleasure? Drop a line in comments. Thank you for stopping by and reading!

* * *

For the Daily Post challenge: No Apologies