The Essentials

Flour, sugar, rice. That's what they needed, so that's what they bought. Every time. No matter how much Michael pleaded or begged. He's lucky I'm getting the sugar. Last month,  he begged so hard for basil seeds that Steven threw them in for free.  That was infuriating.  How dare he presume to parent for me, to run my farm? No matter,  he can grow it, but I won't eat it. The boy has more food than he knows what to do with.  It's bad enough that Pat will be home next month,  buying whatever he wants,  playing the hero, turning our world upside down.  It's best he stay away and leave us to it. We'd be better off without him. The boy needs to learn the difference between needs and wants.  He needs to learn the value of a dollar.  He still owes me for the broken lamp. He owes me.
"Is this all for today?" Steven asked as he rang up the items. The question was directed at the boy, who was twirling the seed rack with great interest.
She followed the grocer's gaze, tightened her lips and replied, "Yes, Steven, it's all we need."

The Protagonist

"Write my life," the Protagonist said.
The writer took a long drag on the cigarette. There were no less than fifteen stories already in the works when they met. A week later and the Protagonist had filled the writer's mind with enough narratives to fill a library. 
The writer tugged on the horse blanket and thought.
Where to begin?
If only the writer didn't love the Protagonist so much. How to honor someone with such unimaginable memories?  And when to write?  Their conversation runs hours into days.
Five minutes after the request was made,  and the writer had heard two more stories and was being handed a plate of grilled snook and vegetables.
"...I dragged my mom into the police station and begged them to do something a year before the murder," the Protagonist said as he swirled his glass of Pinot Noir.
The writer,  now carrying the weight of the mantle placed on her shoulders tried to think like a writer.