Jacks

Allison slammed the showrunner’s door. “Why did you hire that ass Jason? I can’t write with him and neither can anyone else in the writer’s room!” Allison, red in the face and breathing hard, propped hands on hips and waited for a response.

“He jacks up the drama,” Gerry answered. “As you just proved. He challenges, he annoys, he pushes. It makes everyone else better.” Gerry looked at Allison over the top of her reading glasses. “Go back in there and use your burst of energy to come up with something surprising.”

Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “jacks.”

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Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

4 thoughts on “Jacks”

  1. I learned to play jacks very early on in my life and to this day, I still have the knack for it. Heck, I still have a set of them (the heavy kind, not the aluminum ones they sell nowadays). I still remember the fancy moves I used to engage in in order to impress my oponents.

    It’s a game that requires good eye-hand coordinationn, so it keeps your neurons fired up. So, once in a blue moon, I whip them out and play on the laminate floor of the family room (although a granite floor would be much better). Doing this brings back good memories, and it relaxes me.

  2. I received a set of jacks for Christmas when I was very young – maybe six or seven years of age. They were heavy aluminum and painted dark pink. They came with a small, bright red rubber ball.

    I can remember my friend Stacey and me playing jacks, sitting on the sidewalk in front of my childhood home, trying to grab the correct number of jacks before capturing the ball. The concrete was hard on our butts while our ponytails drooped in the hot sun. Jacks remind me of childhood, of summer days, when my only problem was trying to catch the ball.

  3. “Fetch the jack.”
    The voice panted from underneath the beleaguered van.
    You might as well fetch the jack, if the voice asks you to, even if it the van is stranded in the middle of noon-day traffic.
    The van, and the man beneath it, become a dangerously immobile island , as he tinkers with his beloved automobile’s underside, and cars honk, whizz and scowl past, within perilous millimetres..

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