Today’s writing prompts brought to you by “Writing Prompts That Don’t Suck.”
1. Write a story about a New Years Eve party that causes time to stop.
2. Use the following in your story: an undercover detective, the back of a converted van, and a box of Franzia (wine).

“New Year’s Eve, bah. Why all the excitement to see the ball drop, in my case, the ukelele? So it’s January 1st. Big deal,” I grumbled as Corrine and I walked up the wide front stairs of the hotel where the party of the year was happening.
“Don’t be such a grouch, Henry. You’ll be more in the spirit when you get a glass of champagne in you.”
“Champagne – woo hoo.”
We dodged other dressed-up party goers. One group was all decked out in combinations of gold lame and black velvet, with top hats and feather boas.
“Are they the entertainment?” I nudged Corrine with my elbow.
She shushed me.
We reached the ballroom and waited in line to show our engraved invitation to the black clad worker guarding the door.
“Who’s bash is this again?” I leaned in to whisper to her, catching the smell of her perfume. That smell reminded me of fall for some reason; fall and football stands and a plaid blanket we found in the back of her father’s Oldsmobile. I smiled. That was a good time. If only we could stop time and go back to that day. There’d be no mortgage, no impending trial date, no idiot kids shooting people.
“Professor Reginald Almstedt,” she whispered back over her shoulder without looking at me.
“Who? Never mind, he’s probably one of your academics.”
She nodded, and pointed into the room, grabbing my other arm. “Look, there he is.”
She said that just as the doorman asked for our invitation, so I missed seeing who Professor Almstedt was.
Once in the room, she grabbed my hand and lead us over to some of her fellow researchers, and someone – thankfully – pressed a champagne glass in my hand.
“Here’s to a new year,” Charles, my wife’s boss, proposed, “May we have the time of our lives.” Everyone laughed and I didn’t get it but I drank anyway.
“Pssst, hey buddy,” a voice said from behind me. I turned and found a man in a red velvet tuxedo that had seen better years gesturing to me. I walked toward him and he handed me a note. “Make sure Almstedt gets that.”
“What? I don’t even know the man. Give it to him yourself?” But the man had slipped into crowd and was gone.
Being curious and not particularly fond of conspiracy, I unfolded the note and read it. It was a mathematical formula.
I grunted and tucked the note into my pocket. Crackpots, the lot of them.

and it’s time to go.