Prompt of the day: think about a small habit you picked up from one of your parents, and then write a piece that explores an early memory of your parent engaged in that habit, before shifting into writing about yourself engaging in the same habit.

Coal flames in the hearth stage lit father and son,

Both sat, cross-legged, hunched, the scrabble game had begun.

A literary tournament, not quite a fight to the death,

But for one losing would equal, taking his final breath.

Battle commenced, their weapons square tiles,

The prodigy scored triple; his old man smiled.

Then his gauntlet was written, as he laid down his word,

“Dare you challenge, do you think it absurd?”

The boy sat there a quiver, he knew it not right,

If he became victor, what a tale, what a night?

So, he reached for the rule book, and found the right page,

Heart pounding, fingers trembling, his eyes wide ablaze.

He knew Foxx was fable, he declared it not there,

But his tutor kept smiling, as if not to care.

Schooled to relook, he searched one more time,

What’s that there in pencil, between those two lines?

Twix Fox and Foyer, a codicil written,

Glances exchanged, from the board tiles stricken.

To win meant so much, humour cast aside,

And the author kept his secret, till the day that he died.

The desire for triumph, now a burden I carry,

See as my fingers hover, lollygag and tarry,

O’er the decision to raise, peers work on this site

For in doing, I may lose, as I did on that night.

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