Enough!

 

Ramblings of a Retired Mind

Enough!

"Ok, that’s enough," said Number Three.

"But I haven’t finished my paper!" pleaded Number Seven.

"Yes, you have. We have rules," replied Number Three with finality.

"Who made the rules? And why didn’t we discuss them? Was there even a vote?" Number Seven pressed on, the temperature rising.

Number Seven, ever the independent spirit, was no stranger to confrontation. Even as a child, they nearly came to blows over a debate about which president was greater—Lincoln or Kennedy. Facts weren’t always needed—only passion. “Opinions can’t be wrong!” became their unofficial motto.

Today was no exception.

"Maybe we should just take a step back?" suggested the ever-moderate Number Four, hoping to diffuse the tension.

"A step back?" scoffed Number Three. "Rules are rules. Without them, there’s chaos!"

"I just think we should all cool off and revisit this with clearer minds," Four offered gently.

"I just wanted to finish what I started," said Seven. "I put a lot of thought into my paper. This group is supposed to be an open forum—a place for honest conversation, not censorship."

But lines had been drawn. Sides had been taken.

"You’re just trying to ram your bias down everyone’s throats!" snapped Number Three, nearly apoplectic. "You dismiss any viewpoint that doesn’t match your political script!"

Now Number Seven was the one losing composure. Across the room, Number Six blinked and asked, “Wait—what was the point again? I thought we were reading our op-eds, sipping wine, and nibbling cheese before retiring to our corners.”

A voice muttered from the shadows. “So it is said, so it shall be,” mumbled Number Two, half-asleep or perhaps just wisely disengaged.

Everyone turned to look for Number Five—still a no-show, as they had been for four meetings running. A silent consensus formed: it might be time to fill their chair. All eyes drifted toward Number Six, still head-down, scribbling, completely unaware.

Number Eight stood as if to say something, then quietly sat again, unsure of where to land in the swirling storm of opinions.

“Number Six, what do you think?” asked Seven, hoping for support.

Six looked up, exhaled slowly, and held up an empty wine glass. “I think I need a refill.”

Number Three groaned audibly, already irritated after a pre-meeting spat at home. “If no one has an objective, I move we abandon Number Seven’s ridiculous stance and focus on something that actually reflects our purpose. This isn’t a soapbox.”

“Ridiculous?!” Seven’s face turned crimson. “You haven’t had a personal opinion in years! You parrot what you hear from others with their own agendas. How dare you come after me for sharing my truth?”

The temperature in the room hit boiling. All eyes turned to Number One—the unofficial chair and keeper of the peace. No one spoke. It was time for a ruling.

Number One looked down at their hands, then spoke so softly, the group had to lean in to hear.

“On the one hand,” they began, “Number Seven followed the rules—clear statement, double-spaced, under ten pages. On the other hand, we’ve all agreed not to attack each other’s core beliefs. The question is—is this the place for that kind of debate?”

Silence.

Wine glasses were lifted, sipped. A sigh escaped the group like a collective exhale. Number Six asked about the vineyard, eager to shift the subject.

Number One paused, then nodded.

“I believe Number Seven should be allowed to finish their thoughts. After that, we move on. No difference of opinion should tear this group apart. Number Three, I understand your discomfort, but we all have beliefs—and while they may not align, they are valid. Let’s move on respectfully.”

And so, Number Seven finished with two more impassioned sentences. The group nodded, some with polite smiles, others with quiet disapproval. It was time to continue.

Number Six cleared their throat. “I decided to write out a few family recipes to share with the group today.”

Without missing a beat, Number Three chimed in, “They better not include beans—or I’m out of here!”

And in the words of the immortal, if entirely mythical, Number Thirteen:

"Luck is what you make of it."

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.