Life without a computer? Well the story I wrote a few months ago for Julia’s 100-Word Challenge for Grownups takes things one step further, but I think it fits the requirement of the prompt nicely:
The Written Word
The quills were ancient. She’d found them locked in a closet of the abby. But the points were sharp, the monks having taken great care of them.
Mara sighed. “Remember, Robert? … Computers and photocopiers? It was all so easy?”
“Yeah … life before the E-bombs. Who would have dreamed our electronic infrastructure was so unprotected!”
“If the new dictator hadn’t confiscated all the manual typewriters and pencils as well, we could at least communicate to some extent!”
Picking up a quill, Robert replied: “Well, this is how our ancestors printed letters and books. We come from the same stock. So –” dipping his quill into the ink – “let’s get started.” ~~~
“Hey, Gramps.” Sighing heavily, Ronnie lowered himself onto the flat monument beside his Grandfather’s. Warm sun soaked him, highlighting the beloved name engraved in the stone he focused on.
Quiet …
“Well … I just got out again. Two years this time.” Tears brimmed. “I’m sure sorry, Sir … for messin’ up my life.”
A twig snapped, broke the silence. Ron looked right – chuckled. “I see your neighbor still keeps your goats. That’s good. They can come visit.”
Ten minutes passed. “I’ve been thinkin’ a lot about what you always told me: A real man does what’s right no matter what.” Tears flowed now.
Reaching to lay his hand on the engraved letters, Ronnie finally choked out words again. “I promise, Gramps. Starting day … I’ll be a real man.”
~~~
Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wiseoff-Fields. Visit her site to get all the details and join in the fun.
As Mitzi sat on the bus, she enjoyed the rhythmic movement – and she enjoyed the respite from the heat she’d been walking in for the past hour. She leaned just slightly against Pete’s leg, both for the comfort of knowing he was there and the reassurance that he was all right. He was her responsibility, after all, and she never forgot that for one moment.
Her nostrils flared slightly as she gradually identified and responded to all the various scents that wafted through the air of the full vehicle. There was the expected scent of human sweat, and that was a natural part of Mitzi’s life, so even though one or two of the passengers had probably failed to bathe that day, Mitzi’s sense of smell was not insulted by it.
Of course, there was the unmistakable scent of cigarettes that clung to the clothing and hair of half the people on the bus – a scent that just couldn’t seem to be erased or camouflaged effectively by any order eliminators. Of course, some people tried to cover that smell with perfume, and naturally, there were several different flavors of perfume and cologne surrounding Mitzi. She couldn’t have told anyone which flowers, which wood essences, or which spices had been used, but she most certainly recognized the scents as natural and non-threatening.
And then there were all the delicious scents that emanated from the grocery bags and baskets carried by some of the passengers. Many days Mitzi found this trip on the bus thoroughly enjoyable because she could sit and sniff the tantalizing aromas of pork, or fish, or – her favorite – salami from the Italian market at the end of Jasper Street. Her nose was hard at work now, sorting through all the variety of groceries, trying to determine exactly who it was who had that salami. There! The lady in the green coat sitting just three rows up from Mitzi and Pete. Delicious! Mitzi was hungry.
But right after identifying the owner of the salami, Mitzi turned her head to the side just slightly and sniffed harder. There was something else in the air. Something new. Something unusual for the interior of this bus. Something … not right. She wriggled in place a time or two, turned her head the other direction, but then brought it right back to where she’d been focusing. Some sixth sense stirred a warning so deep inside that it put every sense on high alert. Even the hair in her coat bristled. She whimpered and moved again, restlessly. Pete reached a hand over and patted her head, then scratched her ear slightly. “You getting’ restless, old girl?” he asked tenderly.
The young man sitting in the seat that faced Pete spoke now. “That’s a beautiful dog you have there, Sir. A guide dog, if I’m not mistaken?”
Pete turned unseeing eyes toward the young man, his hand still resting on Mitzi’s head. “Yes. Yes, she is … and the best in the world. Been with me for 10 years now.” He chuckled and ruffed Mitzi’s fur affectionately. “We’re both getting pretty old, but we keep sojourning on together.”
“She seems very affectionate,” the young man replied. “I noticed how she leans against your leg constantly.”
“Yes, that’s her habit. Feels responsible for me, I think.” He turned his head as if to look down at Mitzi, who had glanced up at him. “Good girl, Mitzi,” he said. His voice had grown gravely with age, but there was still a tone of kindness that over-road everything else when he spoke. His eyes didn’t see the look in Mitzi’s. It was a look of concentration — wariness. She was puzzled by what she smelled – by some strange entity that every nerve in her body was responding to – and she wanted her master to know. Aware, by training, that he would not see her face, she understood that she would need to convey her concern by movements and sounds. So she wriggled agitatedly and leaned harder on his leg, still sniffing the air, her head turning several directions, trying to get a reading on exactly what and where the problem came from.
All of her senses eventually focused on a passenger across the aisle and two rows up from Pete. He was reading a newspaper, his black briefcase on the floor, held snugly between his feet. Her eyes focused and a low growl sounded in her throat.
Pete was concerned. Mitzi never behaved in such a manner on this bus. She was used to riding it, and she never had negative responses to people. But she whimpered now, pressing Pete’s leg even harder. He leaned down, wrapping one arm around the dog’s neck. “What is it, Mitzi? What’s wrong, girl?”
Mitzi whimpered again, then whined openly. “Shhhh,” Pete whispered. “Quiet, girl. We’ll be home soon.”
There were two more stops before the corner where Pete and Mitzi got off the bus. That meant at least 20 more minutes, and Pete was a little worried that some of the other passengers might become frightened if Mitzi continued growling – even though it was low.
But Mitzi growled again, and then immediately emitted a sharp bark.
“Mister, you’d better keep a tight hold on that dog of yours! She sounds mean to me!” said an overweight guy sitting behind Pete.
Pete turned in his seat to address the man face-to-face, even though he couldn’t see him. “Oh, Mitzi would never hurt you, sir. She’s as gentle as a lamb.” Just then, though, Mitzi’s growl and tug at her leash indicated things could be otherwise.
“Hey, shut that mutt up!” another man yelled from several rows up.
“Hey, Pete,” the driver called back. “What’s going on back there? Your dog never gave us any trouble before.”
“I know, Randal. I don’t understand it myself.” At that moment, Mitzi barked sharply again and pulled on her leash so hard that Pete only barely held her in check. By this time, she was up on her feet and pulling on the leash, whining, and giving Pete every signal she could give to say he needed to follow her lead. She looked toward the man holding the briefcase between his feet. Her eyes were focused on the briefcase, though none of the passengers realized that fact. They believed she was looking at the man.
“Sir, you need to get that dog off this bus,” came from a middle-aged woman. She didn’t want to insult a blind man, but she was starting to become frightened herself. Pete stood to his feet to try to handle Mitzi better.
At that moment, the bus slowed to make it’s next stop – still two stops away from Pete’s corner. But by this time, Mitzi was almost beside herself and pulling on her leash with all her strength, whimpering now, more than growling. It was as if she’d traded her natural instinct to attack the “enemy” for her well-trained instinct to protect her master.
Once the bus was stopped, the driver stood and called back to Pete. “I’m sorry, Pete, but I think you’re going to have to get Mitzi off of here now.”
Pete nodded. “Yes … yes, you’re right Randal. He turned his head in an effort to address the other passengers, just hoping they could see his face enough to recognize his sincerity. “I’m sorry, folks. Mitzi’s such a good dog —” Before he could finish his sentence, Mitzi had emitted another sharp bark and jerked the leash so hard that Pete nearly lost his hold completely. “All right, girl. I’m coming!” he said and began to move up the aisle behind his dog.
The driver took the time to help Pete down the steps. He knew the old man could get down just fine under normal circumstances, but for some reason, today was anything but normal. “I’m sorry, Pete,” he said again. “You take it easy walking from here.”
Pete reached out toward the voice to touch Randal’s arm. He made contact and patted the arm. “It’s all right, Randal. I’ll figure out what’s wrong, and we’ll be back to ride tomorrow with no problems I’m sure.”
The door slid closed; Randal changed gear, and the bus moved on down the road. Pete knelt down to talk to Mitzi. How strange, he thought. The dog was completely calm now. No more growls, no more whimpers. She wagged her tail and licked his cheek. Sorely puzzled, he rubbed her back and spoke reassuringly. “Good girl, Mitzi. You’re a good, good girl.”
As he knelt there beside her on the sidewalk, the bus moved on to the end of the block, and then on to the end of the next block, where it exploded and burst into flames.
~~~
If you’d like to take part in this writing challenge, visit Bumba’s blog here and get the details.
As Cody sat on the cracked seat at the back of the bus, jostled by the jerky movement of the nearly worn-out vehicle, he couldn’t get her off his mind. He kept seeing her smile, hearing her throaty laugh at his flimsy excuse for jokes. He could still feel the softness of her fragrant hair and feel the warmth of her in his arms.
But mostly he could see the hurt in her eyes – the confusion and – yes – he was sure it had been fear. He shook his head now at those memories. He shouldn’t have taken off like that. He shouldn’t have given up so easily – shouldn’t have left her in the clutches of that family of vipers!
He’d known what their attitude would be towards him. He’d grown up in the gypsy caravans – no confirmed lineage as far as a father was concerned – and the best he’d been able to do for work was traveling tool salesman for the local company. He knew as well as her relatives that he didn’t deserve someone like her. Of course he didn’t. But then who did deserve someone as wonderful as Tess?
Besides, deserving didn’t have anything to do with it. It was love that mattered, and there wasn’t another man alive who could love Tess Montague better than he did!
But she had to make the choice. He couldn’t choose for her. And she had lived almost 30 years doing exactly what Mom and Daddy – and Granddad – told her to do. They held the purse strings, but that wasn’t what put the pressure on Tess. He knew that. No – it was the emotional stranglehold they had on her. That guilt trip they always laid on her any time she wanted to be independent in any way at all. He shook his head again. He knew she wasn’t strong enough to get free from them by herself. Why had he given up?
Well, for one thing, she had held back when he asked her point blank if she loved him. He’d confessed his love for her repeatedly for weeks, but she’d never say it back to him. She looked at him with love in her eyes. And goodness knows, the woman kissed him like she couldn’t get enough of him! But she wouldn’t say the words. And it would take words to make her his wife. It would take words to tell that lordly Brewster Harrison, Jr. that she wasn’t going to have him as her husband, regardless of Granddad’s threat to disinherit her if she didn’t marry Brewster.
But if he had stayed a little longer …. He couldn’t help but wonder if it would have made any difference.
He shifted his position sideways and stretched out his legs since the other half of the seat was empty. He sighed and leaned back thinking that his staying wouldn’t have helped. Tess just didn’t have the strength to choose him over all the rest. As the last thought weighed him down in spirit, he glanced to his left to look outside the rear window of the bus.
What the …! What was he seeing? He blinked … rubbed his eyes … strained to look again.
Was it …? Could it be possible …? Running after this bus for all she was worth …?
By golly … the woman did have the guts to do it!
He jumped up and stalked down the narrow aisle of the bus to the drivers seat. “Hey, buddy, I gotta get off!” The driver glanced in the rear-view mirror to get a look at him. “I gotta git off NOW!”
“I can’t make a stop out here in the middle of the road, mister!”
“You got to. The woman I love is runnin’ down the road after us, and I gotta go to her!” As he spoke the last words, he was already standing on the steps with his hand on the automatic door. “If you won’t stop, I’ll force these doors open and jump!”
The driver spared him a disgusted glance and saw more determination than he could fight against, so he put on his flashers and pulled over to the shoulder, shocking the other passengers into voicing their irritation. “You better get off quick, ’cause I can’t sit here!” he ordered.
Cody punched the air with a “thumbs-up” sign, and the second the door opened he and his suitcase were on the ground. A quick salute to the driver was all he managed before the bulky vehicle lumbered away, with all gears grinding and a thick cloud of exhaust fumes burning Cody’s nostrils.
But he didn’t really notice. Because as soon as the cloud of exhaust cleared enough for him to see through the haze, Tess was all that filled his mind. She had run until she had collapsed to her knees, and she obviously had no breath left to speak. But she was beautiful. And her eyes told him everything he needed to know.
~
If you enjoyed this story, you might like the companion story — Tess’ side of the story — which I wrote for the Friday Fictioneers challenge this week. Here’s the link to the story from Tess perspective: “Racing for a Second Chance”
Lungs burning, gulping breath, she could hardly see.
Keep running: her mantra.
The bus was gaining speed rapidly.
Keep running. Have to catch it! Have to stop him!
Best thing in whole life … How could I …?
But submission to her family’s pride was a life-long habit – nearly impossible to break.
Keep running!
You’re making a fool of yourself.
Keep running!
I AM a fool: I let him go!
Keep —
The bus suddenly screeched to a stop … pulled away again.
Too spent to chase it further, she dropped to her knees, squinting through the exhaust fumes.
He stood there, suitcase in hand.
She had no breath for words, but her eyes said it all.
~~~
I wrote this story for this week’s Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. But I also wrote the other side of the story — from the guy’s point of view — for the new writing challenge — AS I SAT ON THE BUS — over at Bumba’s blog.
Cold sunlight glares through the high windows onto the scarred, wooden stage as I walk its length slowly. My old friend the upright just sits there – battered – bruised – silent. No more music. A catch-all now for props from long-abandoned comic skits and love scenes.
Stark shadows punctuate the old, stained backdrop.
My footsteps once brought standing-room only audiences to their feet. Now, they echo across the emptiness.
“Condemned,” the billboard reads! They tear it down tomorrow.
One sob escapes.
I inhale the dust and wonder: does it come from the room … or from my memories?
“Hello!” Dickey Hendricks greeted the curious animal in the forest.
“Hello.”
“Boy, you’re funny looking! Who are you?”
“I’m Fable Abel.”
“Who’s that?”
“The main character in a fable about just being yourself.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, my author created me to be a zebra. He gave me these hind legs. But then I saw a tiger and insisted on becoming a tiger instead. But when I saw a giraffe, I begged my author to make me a giraffe. But just as he was drawing my head, I saw an elephant and shouted, ‘No, I want to be an elephant with a looooong trunk!’”
“Oh my! So what are you now?”
“A lesson for boys and girls like you.”
~
( I confess I’m 19 words over, but I like it the way it is, so I’m posting it anyway.)
And sometimes yellow can’t be seen: It hides in blue and turns to green.
~~~
I have to admit I sort of cheated, because I originally wrote this poem a few weeks ago as part of the National Poetry Writing Month challenge. But it just seemed to fit this prompt from Julia so perfectly that I thought it would be a shame not to use it. And with 97 words, what more could I ask for?
Join the fun by going toJulia‘ssite for the details.
Terry Valley had such a great time reading all of your stories from the last writing challenge based on his graphic art that he has sent me another picture – the result of further graphic art work by him. But he wants me to make it clear that he did not actually draw this picture. Rather, he took portions of other works and put them together to create this composite picture. One of his favorite artists is Gustave Dore, whose work is now in public domain in the U. S., and the main characters in this picture come from Dore’s work.
Terry also shared his original intent for the picture and explained what it means to him, but I have posted that well below the picture itself. That way, any of you who want to try your hand at responding to the writing challenge can be free to process what the picture inspires in you and write your story before you read Terry’s purpose and meaning behind it. Or – feel free to read his explanation first.
If you’d like to accept the challenge and write a story, just post it on your blog, come over here, and post your link in the “Comments” section below.
Word Limit is 100-500 words.
No time limit: Write when you feel inspired.
Take your liberty with ideas, but please remember this is a “G” rated blog, so all stories must adhere to that rating. I hope we have a lot of response, and I’m eager to read all the stories. Also, I guess I’d better try to write one as well.
Here’s Terry’s artwork:
~
Terry’s Explanation of What the Picture Means to Him:
“The picture is meant to portray the seriousness of our existence. We are not our own, despite the human pride that says otherwise. We belong to God who created us. If we do not realize this in this life, it will become terrifyingly clear to us at death. The scene shows a human being after his death at the portal to his eternal destiny, represented by a gate set in the unbounded vastness of eternity.
He is on his knees, hands raised in desperate terror, pleading with the giant spiritual being before him who guards the gate to eternity and is pointing at the formerly complacent human being who now realizes – too late –that his complacency has doomed him to eternal fire – which is perilously close and licks all around him and the Angel of the Gate, the Death Angel.
To make the man’s grief and predicament all the worse, in the far distance, behind him, can be seen a single bright star, which represents the glorious and joyous destiny that could have been his. The star is behind him, as is his life on earth; he turned his back on the glorious future that could have been his, if he had not wasted his life on himself instead of living for the One — Jesus — who created him for Himself.
This is the moment of moments in his entire life, the one, last moment that decides his destiny for all eternity. But in truth, that destiny was decided long before, while he was still alive on earth. Now it is too late. Judgment has been set – and it cannot be changed.
That may sound like a lot to see in a single picture, but that is why it was created and what I hope it portrays and communicates.”
The quills were ancient. She’d found them locked in a closet of the abby. But the points were sharp, the monks having taken great care of them.
Mara sighed. “Remember, Robert? … Computers and photocopiers? It was all so easy?”
“Yeah … life before the E-bombs. Who would have dreamed our electronic infrastructure was so unprotected!”
“If the new dictator hadn’t confiscated all the manual typewriters and pencils as well, we could at least communicate to some extent!”
Picking up a quill, Robert replied: “Well, this is how our ancestors printed letters and books. We come from the same stock. So –” dipping his quill into the ink – “let’s get started.”
Reaching for the receiver: “Hey! What the …? … Hey, Ted, look at this!”
Ted snatched the earpiece from Freddy. “Somebody’s talkin’ on here!”
“There ain’t no way to answer ’em, Ted! What’ll we do?”
Ted looked around suspiciously. “I know what this is … one of them hidden camera shows.” Squaring his shoulders: “Stand up straight, Freddy. I think we’re on TV.”
~
Friday Fictioneers. Join the fun and write a 100-word story prompted by this picture. Visit Rochelle’s site to get the rules: http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/
This week I sent Terry Valley, the artist who created “The Green Planet,” the link our stories based on his artwork. He was thrilled with them and, since he also writes, he was inspired by our stories to write one of his own. I’ve included his personal letter in this post because he expresses his sincere thanks to everyone who took the time to create a story from his picture. So here is his letter, followed by his own story.
“Thank you so much for alerting me to your writing challenge. I read every one of the entries and enjoyed every one of them. I was also floored by the creativity of each one. WOW! Our infinite God has created an endless variety of unique individuals that reflect his own infinite resources and aspects of personality. I was so impressed by the stories and the individuals. They all sound like people you would like to meet in person. Failing that, what a wonderful opportunity blogs present for getting to know all the variety of people. “You know, I had forgotten that I even sent you that picture. I am so glad you alerted me to how you were using it and the writing challenge. It is very satisfying and thrilling to see such good use made of it and how the picture inspired people to be creative themselves. Here is some background about my own process in creating the picture (although it was done some time ago, during my drawing phase, so my memory is not the sharpest on details.)
“I had only vague ideas of what I wanted to create; making a planet was one of the main ones. I love drawing planets; the opportunities for wide-open creativity are many, since you are not restricted to what is known about this planet on which we live.
“But I also am fascinated by mushrooms, so it was only natural to join the two, planets and mushrooms, together. I had seen a photograph or drawing (can’t remember which) of a mushroom group like the blue ones in my picture, and they were so haunting with their semi-transparencies, like they were part of two worlds or in between two dimensions or worlds, that it seemed only natural to set them in such a space picture of other worlds.
“Then there was the matter of the disintegration of the planet. That wasn’t planned, as I recall; it came about because of an error in drawing the rings. I used a mechanical program to help me do that but had trouble matching the angles etc. to the planet. I noticed that the outer edge on one side was flaring away and did not match the ring angles on the other side of the planet. What to do? Well, what if the planet was disintegrating? That would explain the discrepancy. Voila!
“The planet is disintegrating; that is why the rings mismatch on opposite sides of the planets. Why let a mistake, if it could be called that rather than a creative happenstance, ruin an otherwise good idea? Rather, turn it into an opportunity for greater creativity. In fact, that is what I did. Then I thought, OK, the place is falling apart; how can other parts of the picture emphasize that fact and make it more interesting?
“In that regard, your story is one example of how your creativity was sparked by someone else’s (in this case, mine). You see, you said that the person on the rope was descending. When I was making the picture, to me, that person was ascending, going up to join the other person on top of the mushroom. Funny how two people see exactly the opposite thing in the same picture. Hmm. Maybe like evolutionists and creationists looking at the world — or a hundred other examples.
“Anyway, it wasn’t just you. When I read all those stories, I was amazed at all the things that the authors found or at least got ideas for some aspect of their story that I had never even considered. I was just drawing a picture that grew and changed in my mind, just like they were constructing a picture-story in theirs. I am a writer as well as an artist, so I know how both work. They are similar in that regard.
“Speaking of writing, I guess maybe I should try my own hand at a story for the picture. I haven’t written fiction in a long time. I have been concentrating instead on spiritual blogs in a Christian community of bloggers. Maybe it’s time to refresh my spirit in this other avenue again.
“A final comment about the picture. Originally, I entitled it “LOOK!”. I had none of the broader perspectives that your writing challenge authors came up. I was simpler in approach, but am so buoyed up by reading their stories and the broader and deeper and funnier approaches they took. Thank you so much and thank you to all who took the time to create their own contributions to this effort.
“As sort of promised (or warned), here is my contribution for your green planet writing challenge. — Terry”
LOOK
“Look!” cried Larry, the lookout, from atop the giant, translucent, eerily blue mushroom. “Lookit-it!”
“What?” shouted Marston back to him, hanging for dear life by a slender thread beneath the same giant, translucent, eerily blue mushroom. (Marston, by the way, was his last name, not his first or middle–not that that made any difference just then, since his main concern at the moment was how to untangle the line and clip on his belt that prevented him from any further movement up or down the rope and thus preventing him from escaping the bombardment of the killer meteoroids.)
He knew he shouldn’t have bought their mushroom climbing supplies online; you just never know what you’re getting from those fly-by-night outfits.
He tried to untwist the tangled mess with his fingers, but it was no use; the thick gloves of his space suit were no match for the tight knot that had developed as he hung there suspended in space, who knew how far from the nearest civilization? “How had he ever come to such a perilous situation in the first place?” he thought.
Then, as he wondered why another tiny meteoroid was growing larger and larger, it suddenly hit him: He didn’t have the slightest idea! He knew only that ever since he had been a boy, growing up on the flat plains of North Dakota, he had wanted to be a spaceman, discovering and exploring new worlds. Now here he was, dangling from a rope from a giant, translucent, eerily blue mushroom, being threatened by a meteor shower that pummeled his body, his life hanging in the balance — and his partner in space exploration was yelling out to him to “lookit-it”.
“I’m lookiting!” he replied caustically from the midst of the acid fumes that were attacking his space suit.
Why are you still down there?” Larry asked. “Why don’t you come up here and look at this?” he shouted.
“You don’t have to shout, you know,” Marston responded. “I can hear you just fine through the radio.”
“Oh, right,” shouted Larry. “Sorry, forgot. What are you doing down there anyway?” he shouted.
“Oh, just hanging around,” muttered Marston, as the acid fumes continued to eat away at his space suit and the rope continued to fray, threatening to plunge him down to his death on the poisonous semi-giant, translucent, red mushrooms below, while there was no letup in the bombardment of the killer meteoroids. “How did I ever get into such a predicament,” he thought. Then he remembered that he had already asked himself that question. Maybe he should not be so concerned with the past and move on with his life. He was all for that –but just now there was a huge knot preventing him from moving anywhere.
Just then, the Nebulizer Emergency Replacement Device (NERD for short) kicked in and transported both of them to another dimension, where Larry found himself atop a giant, translucent, eerily blue marshmallow, calling out to his traveling companion below, “LOOK!”
The estate still boasted its artistic iron fence and stone posts, although the grasses were encroaching. Trevor smiled. How the old lady would chastise that gardener.
Feisty, courageous old girl! Living alone in the home Albert had built her. Married here on a Sunday, by Tuesday, she’d kissed her soldier husband goodbye.
Next year, a scruffy teen hired to paint the fence, Trevor had won her heart – and she’d won his. He’d been there (the son she’d never have) to hold her hand as she’d read the black-edged telegram and cried. She’d refused to live in mourning, but seventy years she never loved but one man.
Today, at last, she was with Albert.
~~~
To join in and write your own 100-word story inspired by this picture, visit Rochelle’s site for the ‘how-to’ details.
Julia’s 100-word story challenge this week is a beautiful picture from Marianne Whooley at Maris World. My story is below the picture.
IDENTITY
Sandy and Mandy were identical twins: blond, green-eyed beauties with a smattering of freckles and charming dispositions. Mom dressed them in identical outfits, bought them identical backpacks, and pulled their hair into identical pony tails.
She bragged to everyone about how “exactly alike” they were and insisted they do identical chores and play identical games at the same time. She sent them to Gramma’s farm together every year.
And every year, pony tails riding at exactly the same height, matching green eyes gazing into the peaceful pond, they stood on the old bridge and dreamed – utterly separate, sublimely independent dreams.
“Here we are, folks: the legendary bar where Snooky Adams was gunned down by his partner, Lila Corbell.” The young guide positioned himself to imitate the gangster, dressed in Snooky’s signature red turtle-neck and gray, pinstriped jacket, his hair slicked back in Snooky’s oily-smooth style. The resemblance was disturbing.
He looked into the mirror behind the bar, intending to make eye contact with his group via that reflection, but he suddenly shouted, “Lila!”
His audience jerked heads to look behind them at the same second the shots rang out. But seeing no one, they turned back to their guide. He was on the floor, three bullet holes in his chest.
Lila’s reflection lingered in the mirror, smoking gun in hand.
~~~
(I took some license with the mirror. The one in my imagination is bigger than the one in the picture.)
Would you like to share your own story inspired by this photo? We’d like to read it. Hop over to Rochell Wisoff-Fields’ site and get in on the fun: http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/
The Written Word
Photo by 
The Happy Wordcrafter 
