Sunny Henderson, Author

In My World, It's Always Sunny

Project #Trendprompt

As a personal challenge, each day I look at the trending topics on Twitter and make a 140-character (or less) writing prompt.  Try it!  And share yours with me! (Pssst!  I post under my pen name @Writers_Village on Twitter.  Follow me and I’ll follow back!)Maybe these little snippets will trigger a deeper story within.  Eventually I think I’m going to start making my daily trendprompts into one congruent story, using the next day’s prompt as a story twist.  You can use this in any way that gets you writing and thinking.  Be silly, be serious…. there is no limit!  Have fun with it!



She licked the salt from the rim of her drink, but did not take a sip. They’d hurt her for the last time, and she wanted to remember that. (Today Is National Margarita Day)


Timidly, she offers her first name, and I pen a small note to her on the inner cover of my book. Together we fulfill a dream (#BeforeIDieIWanna)



We moved like water, flowing around one another on the busy crosswalk. His shoulder met mine in a glancing blow. “Wait!”  (#GalaxyAtWork)


I turned to him, annoyed. The jostling made me spill half of my latte. “I know you! Weren’t you in that Hunger Games movie?” (Jennifer Lawrence)


I slowed. “Really? Do girls actually fall for that?” 

“What? You really do look like her.” 

He lied, but I smiled anyway. (#thingsgirlslike)


A girl behind me slammed into my back, distracted by her cell phone. 

“Watch it!” She cried, annoyed by my existence, I guess. (#iOnlyGetMadWhen)


The remainder of my latte crashed to the ground, and I nearly burst out in tears. A good cup of joe made or broke my day. (#SimpleJoysOfLife)


He eyed the puddle of my favorite drink and my forlorn expression. “Hey, Hunger Games–let’s get you another coffee. My treat.” (#WeakFor)


“First, a riddle.” I challenged, hand on hip.  “What’s the first word that pops in your head when I say ‘Justin Bieber’?” (#OperationMakeBieberSmile)

“Who’s Justin Bieber?” He asked. I couldn’t bring myself to ask if he was serious.  He’d offered to buy me coffee, after all.  (#AutomaticTurnOns)


He narrowed his eyes.”Wait. Team Edward or Jason?” 

“Jacob?” Oops. I buried my face in my hands. Way to play it cool. (#FictionalCharactersIWantToMarry)


“Look, I really don’t care whose team you’re on,” he confessed. “What I really want is for you to smile again.”

 And it worked. (#HowToMakeMeSmile)


Exactly nine minutes later, we tucked into a booth with our coffees. He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture.  (#WhitePeopleActivities)

“A picture of your drink? Why?”
“Why not? It’s beautiful!”
Though I’d never considered it before, he was absolutely right.  (#ICanHonestlySay)


“So, what is it you do?” I asked, stirring my coffee. 

“That’s not what’s important,” he shrugged. “That’s not what defines me.” (#ICouldCareLessAbout)


“But to answer your question, I’m a courier.” He sighed. “Not exactly a superhero like my childhood dream. Maybe someday.”



“No way! I used to run around the house in my boots and bathing suit pretending to be Wonder Woman.” I laughed, blushing.



“I may or may not have formed my own A-Team. Remember the A-Team?” It was his turn to look embarassed. “I was Hannibal.” (#A-Team)


“What’s so wrong with being a courier? I bet you deliver good news all day. That’s kind of like a superhero.” I insisted.



He shrugged, “Yeah, but I also deliver awful news. Divorce papers, legal papers, all of the worst kinds of papers you can get.”



“Don’t you think all of that’s not always the end, but maybe the start of something better?” He squinted. “Are you a poet?”



Was it really that obvious? “Actually, I’m a writer. But waiting tables pays the bills, kind of.”



A corner of his mouth turned upward, sending my stomach into acrobatics. “A writer? I wonder how our story turns out.”



What I couldn’t tell him was that I used to be THAT girl, the one who wrote the end of the romance first. I killed the romance.


“I’m a writer, yeah, but it doesn’t mean I write about everything.” 

“Don’t you?” He asked, peering over his coffee cup.  

“Maybe.” I teased. My phone began to chime from within my purse, plunging me back into the real world. “Crap! What time is it?”



“I’m sorry I made you late,” he said. “But I’m not sorry you spilled your coffee. Can I call you sometime?



“No, but you can call me Kayla.” He didn’t laugh at my nervous attempt at humor. I looked away, hoping he’d forget my lameness.



When he smiled and offered me his business card instead of pointing out my awful joke, I took it as a sign.

(#Andrew Smith  ….  To which, I say, “who?”)


I stared at his card for days, anxious to call but only able to hear my mom’s instruction on the propriety of women phoning men.



On day eight, I defied my mother.



Instead of sounding excited to hear from me, he sounded mostly asleep. It took him a minute to place me. Awkward.




I nearly ended the call instead of waiting for him to place me. “Coffee-lover by day, hot librarian by night?” He joked.




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