Stick
A stick. She had brought a stick.
She would rather have found something better: a flamethrower, a steam shovel, a rock—anything would have been better than a stick (Not everything. A stick is a much better weapon than—say confetti. Though if thrown at the eyes…). But alas, when Time’s against you, it is very hard to plan anything out more than a few seconds in advance.
For as long as she could remember, Julie and Father Time seemed to be locked in an unending battle for control of her life. Free time was never truly hers; if ever there were plans, nine times out of ten, something would interrupt them before fruition. And the other one time out of ten, when something did happen to fall through Time’s tight grasp, he made sure to taint it by something as simple as the onset of a cold.
Julie had come to despise Time.
In fact, she was on her way to his house right now. Hence the blunt object. She was going to have a few firm words with him. Very firm words.
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