FMC Generator

Generator Used:
FMC Generator

My Roll:
🎲 3 — Archetype: The Caregiver
🎲 5 — Personality: Independent and Free-Spirited
🎲 3 — Strength: Intuitive and Insightful
🎲 4 — Wound: Failed to Live Up to Expectations
🎲 2 — Motivation: To Seek Justice or Right a Wrong
🎲 6 — Contradiction: Struggles with Control or Power

Before we get into it:
Story Lab isn’t where finished stories come to show off. These are creative kickstarts—rolled, written, and shared before I can polish all the weirdness out of them. The point isn’t perfection. It’s to take what the dice give me and see where the hell it goes.

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Story

Pulling up beside the beater in the driveway, I put my little Honda Accord in park. Pete, Miss Alma’s son, is here today. Figures, Social Security checks just hit bank accounts.

Reaching over to grab the little brown bag of groceries, I breathe deep and remind myself Miss Alma would not appreciate it if I beat the shit out of her son. No matter how much of a dirtbag he is.

Popping open my door, I climb out of my car, hug the grocery bag tight to my chest, and force the irritation down. A pained cry from inside the tiny white trailer has me sprinting up the steps to the small wooden porch. Barely twisting the doorknob, I sling the door open.

Wild-eyed and furious, Pete turns from where he was towering over the slight frame of his mother. Tears flow down her face; tiny, wrinkled hands cover her eye.

“The hell are you doing here?” Pete slurs.

Shouldering past him, I drop the groceries on the oak kitchen table and reach for Miss Alma.

“Go.” My voice is low, a growl ripping up my throat as I gently grasp Miss Alma’s hand and pull it away from her face. “I’m calling the police.”

All I can do at this moment is bluff. Miss Alma would never let me sic the cops on her son.

The front door slams behind me. Hurried footsteps cross the porch and pound down the steps.

“Fucking coward.”

Black bruising, swelling, and a cut across Miss Alma’s cheekbone twist my stomach in fury. A trickle of blood seeps from the cut down the side of her face.

Gently squeezing her hand, I tell her, “Let’s get this cleaned up.”

She peers at me from the one watery blue eye that isn’t swelled shut. How? I silently seethe. How can someone do this to their mother? I would give anything to have my mother here with me. Could never imagine hurting her.

“Don’t.” Miss Alma’s voice is thick with pain and grief.

Already standing to get a cloth, I stop and look down at her frail frame sitting on the chair. “Please, Miss Alma, let me help you get cleaned up.”

I can hear Pete reversing out of the driveway, then—bang! Metal against metal.

That motherfucker! I know he hit my car on purpose.

Miss Alma startles when we hear the unmistakable bang from outside. She knows I have to do it. I know I should, too.

Shoulders drooping, Miss Alma whispers desperately, “Don’t call the police.”

Sniffling, she looks up at me. Shock and pleading crease her already lined face in new ways.

Wetting the washrag in the sink, back turned to Miss Alma, I stiffen.

Don’t call the police?

I gnaw on my lip while I ponder her request and wring out the rag. Taking a deep breath, I turn back to my neighbor, the grandmother I never had and have mentally appointed Miss Alma to the role, and force a smile I don’t feel.

“He hit my car.”

“I’ll pay for the damages,” she offers.

“You can’t keep letting him get away with draining your wallet, Miss Alma,” I counter.

Miss Alma tucks her chin to her chest as I make my way back to her, shoulders shaking as she cries softly.

“He’s my son,” she hiccups between sobs.

“He’s hurting you.”

I gently hold her chin and tip her head back to clean the blood, snot, and tears from her face.

My mind is reeling while I do my best to be gentle cleaning her face.

Don’t call the police? I think again.

I don’t want to cause Miss Alma more stress. Pete is enough.

But I will handle this.

“I won’t call them, but we have to do something to stop him.”

Pulling a few tissues from the box she keeps on the kitchen table, I hand them to her as I stand to return to the sink. Rinsing the washcloth, I give her a few minutes to calm down. I wring out the excess water and turn back around.

“I’m going to put the groceries away for you.” I hand her the cloth. “Hold this on your eye for a bit.”

Putting the milk in the fridge, I ask, “Why does Pete need to borrow money from you so much?”

Miss Alma doesn’t respond. She’s not offended—we’ve had far too many personal talks for her to be—but I realize we’ve skirted the Pete topic for years.

“He’s my son,” she answers plainly.

“Yeah, but he’s grown. Doesn’t he have a job?”

Getting whatever information I can about the loser is the first step in figuring out how I’m going to handle the issue.

“He’s not like you, Marla,” she begins.

I raise an eyebrow as I tuck the butter into the door of the fridge. “Not like me? I’m a waitress. He’s probably doing better than I am,” I joke.

“For now,” she corrects me.

“I don’t see that changing anytime soon.”

“You’re still as smart as you were back then,” she reminds me.

Closing the refrigerator, I stand and begin folding the paper bag neatly.

“It’s too late now,” I sigh. “I can’t get a scholarship. I failed out and never went back.”

Tucking the bag into a drawer with the other saved bags, I take a deep breath, shut the drawer, and walk back over to Miss Alma. Scanning her face, I see the bleeding has stopped. I hold out my hand for the cloth.

“Let’s rinse it and get it cold again.”

She places it in my hand.

“Do you think your mother would want you to give up on yourself?” she asks me softly.

An invisible fist squeezes my heart, my nose stings as tears well up behind my eyes.

I force a chuckle around the knot in my throat. “I’m too old to go back to high school.”

“Get a G.E.D.,” she responds like it’s no big deal.

“I have to work. No one else is going to pay my bills.” My shoulders sag under the weight of responsibility.

“No. You have enough going on, Miss Alma.” I look her directly in the eye. “I’m not going to take charity. Besides, you’re on a fixed income,” I remind her for at least the millionth time. “I appreciate that you want to help me, I do,” I insist, “but there’s no way your income can carry three people.”

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Tomorrow we roll for our MMC. Come back and meet him with us.

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Your turn. Have fun with it!