Just For Sh**s and Giggles

Welcome to my warped and wonderful imagination. Having recently followed a new blog on Tumblr titled “writing-prompt-s”, I now have a source for many playful and weird ideas for stories. For my first attempt, I’ve decided to try the following, interesting prompt:

“You keep getting randomly pulled out of your daily life back to the year 1200 by the same group of sorcerers. It was amazing at first but now it’s starting to give you the shits.”

I see her enter the dimly lit restaurant, glamorous in her evening gown. Beginning to stand up from the table set for two, I think, ‘How lucky  am I to be on this date?’

Halfway out of my seat, right as I begin to wave to her, I feel the familiar churning in my stomach. It isn’t my nervousness.

As the vortex opens behind me, I rue the sorcerers for not having better timing. Honestly, there isn’t a convenient time to be magically pulled back into the 1200s, yet they consistently  choose the most inopportune moments to practice their magic.

They really need to find another hobby.

I’ve disappeared from work countless times; somehow I haven’t been fired. My coworkers just plow on through each project and meeting. I’m not sure if they don’t notice my sudden disappearances into a magical abyss, or if they just don’t care.

These misadventures are even worse when they occur during social gatherings. It makes a fairly big scene around people I don’t know very well. The first few times the sorcerers magically teleported me to their time, my friends thought it was a cool party trick. Now my they get just as annoyed as I do, no thanks to the mess.

A side effect of the magic exacerbates the situation: magical travel through the portals has begun to make me lose control of my  bowels. I always have to keep an overnight bag with extra pants nearby, just in case.

There have also been many restless nights due to this phenomenon. One minute, I’m lying asleep in my warm, clean bed, the next I’ve landed on a dirt floor surrounded by guffawing men in robes. They speak old English and almost always exchange coin upon my arrival. These days they seem to dabble less in magic and more in gambling about my appearances.

One of them hit big money once: I was unwittingly pulled into the vortex mid-shower and mid-Adele lip sync. I remember standing wet, naked, soiling myself, as the men in robes guffawed and reluctantly handed over pouches and pouches of gold to one of the oldest and most wizened sorcerers. I haven’t seen that particular wizard in any of my trips since.

Presently, as the fancy restaurant disappears, I cross my arms and prepare a look of disapproval crafted especially for the insipid sorcerers. Landing once more in the torch lit room (portal travel having already ruined my dress pants), I stare daggers at the hooded occupants.

The usual laughter, pointing, and exchanging of money begins to take place. Tonight’s big winner appears to be the sorcerer with a unibrow. Likely having bet that I’d be dressed nicely, his comrades press pouch after pouch of gold into his greedy little arms.

With this amount of winnings, he will probably never be seen again, like his associate who previously won during my interrupted shower rendition of “Rolling in the Deep.”

While none of the magicians seems happy to have lost the bet, they all appear to enjoy the sport.

They can’t tell from my annoyed countenance and soiled drawers that I have a plan.

From my past experiences, I know there are thirty seconds until the spell breaks and I am transported back to my own time (which thankfully includes washing machines and indoor plumbing).

I’ve been counting in my head for twenty-six seconds as the wizards have their fun.

Twenty-seven.

I step towards the little man with the unibrow, now gleefully clutching his armfuls of winnings.

Twenty-eight.

His laugh stalls as he sees me come closer. I’ve never approached any of them before.

Twenty-nine.

The small sorcerer’s eyes pop out in surprise as I grab both his arms. He isn’t chuckling anymore.

Thirty.

It’s my turn to laugh as the small man yelps and we fall backwards into the newly opened return-portal.

We arrive back at the table in a whirl of color and light. My date gives a start. She was looking around the restaurant, checking her phone to see where I’d got to. She gasps as a wizened sorcerer, clutching bags of gold, appears out of nowhere next to me.

The little, hooded man stands stock-still in fear. He stares at his surroundings, paralyzed and still holding his armfuls of gold. He’s probably thankful his smelly, brown robes mask some of the side effects of his time travel.

Being used to the stares and disturbances my accidental trips through time create, I am unfazed. I begin unloading the little sorcerer’s coin bags onto the table for two, simultaneously apologizing to my date for my lateness and for the smell.

The sorcerer is too petrified to stop me. Thirty seconds after we appear, he and his empty arms disappear in another rush of wind and color, transported back to the dingy, medieval room.

After a quick trip to the restaurant’s washroom with my overnight bag, I am able to formally meet my date in a fresh pair of pants. Having provided a swift and satisfactory explanation for my arrival, we enjoy and pay for our meal in gold coins. She and I then take to the city for an exceptional night making good use of my spoils.

Thanks to the bags of coins in my pockets, I feel a different, and more pleasant, weight in my pants than usual.

After this historic robbery through time, I have a feeling I won’t be needing to pack an extra pair of pants in the future.

What do you think?

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