I’ve done a couple of posts on Kaw-liga — that unfortunate wooden Indian who became famous in Hank Williams’ internationally popular song by the same name. But recently one of my creative writing students did her own story about poor ol’ Kaw-liga, with a new twist, and since we just published her piece in the Debut Writers Journal this week, I thought I’d highlight it here.
Kaw-Liga Gets a Second Chance.
~~~
“`
Well, dear blogging buddies, I am writing this post to ask a favor of any of you who might have the time to visit a new blog. As most of you know, I teach creative writing classes for a local college, and this year we have decided to launch an experimental addition to our curriculum.
We have created an online magazine, Debut Writers Journal, in which we feature work by the students in the creative writing classes. The magazine serves two purposes. For one thing, it allows the students to see their work in print and gets their names out into the literary world. But secondly, the magazine offers opportunities for the more advanced students to learn editorial and publishing skills by working with us on the magazine. It’s a brand new effort and will take some time to polish, but I’m excited about it.
I have posted quite a few pieces by some of the students already (short stories, non-fiction articles, and poems), and I will be posting a few more in the next couple weeks. Then when we get into the summer term, there will be new students to add to the roster. These students are from all walks of life and include every age group — from those right out of high school through those in their 70’s.
Now, the favor I’m asking is that any of you who have time would hop over there and take a look at some of what they have written. You probably won’t have time to read everything, but if you pop in and out from time to time, you can read several entries. And, of course, if you enjoy some of the pieces, please leave a comment for the writers. They are all very eager to learn the ropes of perfecting their craft, and they work very hard. So every word of encouragement is a great blessing to them.
Please don’t feel pressed to say things that you don’t feel sincerely, but when you do enjoy a piece, please let them know.
Thank you so much for being willing to share your time and energy to encourage fledgling writers. I hope doing so blesses you as well. Just follow the link in the second paragraph above and enjoy your visit.
~~~
So good to get back to Friday Fictioneers this week. If you’d like to join in with your own 100-word story, follow the link to learn how. The photo prompt this week is thanks to Douglas M. MacIlroy.
A TRIP TO THE STARS
“You’ve got to be kidding!” she said looking at the row of four observatories.
“What do you mean, Honey?”
“When you described a package deal called ‘Honeymoon Under the Stars’ I thought you meant a warm, exotic beach.”
“But, Sweetheart, it’s the only place on earth to spend a week in a real observatory and study the heavens.”
“Harold, I don’t want to study the stars. I want to feel like I’ve been carried there by love … and speaking of that … how can we … you know … in that kind of place?”
“Don’t worry, my love,” he said, kissing her thoroughly. “I’ll give you a trip to the stars whether you ever look through that telescope or not.”
~~~
Well, I seem to be in some kind of MOOD today. Julia posted her 100-word story challenge this morning, and chose a light, springy, happy subject: April. So what did I do with it? See below, but please don’t ask me why? I simply have no idea.
A DIRGE FOR APRIL FOOLS
April. Marcus had promised to come to her in April. She’d have a white gown and bouquet of pink azaleas.
February. She’d believed Peter when he’d told her of Marcus’ infidelity and comforted her grief. So she’d married Peter on the last day of March – mere hours before Marcus’ brother arrived, bringing her the coffin containing her beloved’s body – slain at Peter’s hand.
April 1st. She buried Marcus and planted a pink azalea bush upon his grave. That night, as Peter slept, she drove a knife into his heart – and then into her own – her final breath a benediction: “Rest in peace, Marcus.”
~~~
Finally!!! I have been energized by the other authors who have been quick to respond to the writing challenge “Anyone Got a Story to Go With This Picture,” and, at last, I have had an opportunity to sit down and write mine. I offer it below. And remember, there is no time limit on taking part in this challenge, so if you’d like to participate, hop over to the link above and check out the very simple rules. I will also post the link to this story on the original challenge page.
THAWING THE ICE
Misty laced up her skates and glided smoothly across the ice. It had been more than a year since she’d come to her favorite pond. The trees were stark silhouettes against the deep snow, barren and seemingly useless in this white wilderness. She felt that way herself. The gray world around her matched her gray and barren heart. Words came back to her now from the whispering past.
“You can’t just give up, Misty. Marcus wouldn’t want you to quit skating. He wouldn’t want you to give up the life you’ve always loved.”
She continued to circle the pond, listening to conversations in her head – all from last year. After the accident. “I can’t skate alone. I’m no good by myself. It’s always been Marcus and me together – from the time we were seventeen.”
“But you’re so gifted, dear,” Mother had insisted. “You were skating beautifully long before you even met Marcus. Why, from the time you put on your first pair of skates – remember? – the pink pair you got for Christmas when you were six? – from that very first day, you’ve been a star in the making. All your fans want to see you back out there on the ice.”
Misty had merely hung her head and wept. She new her mother meant well, but she’d never be able to understand. And Misty was glad her mother had never known that kind of loss.
But her family didn’t understand about the fans either. Yes, her own family were her personal fans, but the fans in all the ice rinks around the world hadn’t been hers. They were fans who loved Misty and Marcus – together – “the darling duo” as they’d been dubbed in more than one news story. The fans wanted to see both of them on the ice, not just one lonely girl – lost now in a world that had been her own kingdom little more than a year ago.
The cold wind bit at her, but she welcomed the pain. It matched the pain in her heart. And she welcomed the gray world she skated in now. It matched the world she lived the rest of her life in with Marcus dead.
So she skated – round and round the pond – one hour – then another. And with each trip around that pond of her childhood came the memories – like warm flashes of sunlight: the first time she’d skated in her pink skates; the first day she’d invited Marcus to skate with her there; the first competition they’d entered – and won; the grueling hours of practice that both of them had loved.
Gradually, as the happy memories flooded back and thawed the ice that had held her soul in its lonely, gray world for the past year, Misty began to feel alive again. A smile spread across her face and she flung out her arms as if to embrace this precious pond with its stark trees and white emptiness. She found herself skating into routines she’d used before she and Marcus had become a team. And gradually, she found herself adding moves to those routines. They weren’t done consciously. They just flowed from her as naturally as water flows down a hill when a barrier has been removed.
Her heart began to sing. Her body followed suit. And although the pond and all it’s surroundings were still as gray and barren as they’d been when she’d arrived, Misty discovered that she was now skating in sunshine – in the warmth of her love for Marcus and in the fire of the passion she felt for skating. Perhaps her family and friends had been right after all. Perhaps she did still have a life to live and a gift to give to the world from her kingdom on the ice.
~~~
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(Something fit for general audiences please.)
~~~
Well, I am so grateful to the Lord for friends who specialize in computers and all their appendages. Thanks to one of those friends, my technological problems seem to be remedied this evening, and I shall go forward from here. But seeing that I was just too tired to start creating from scratch again tonight, I decided to take another little trip down memory lane and wandered through some of my old 100-word stories. (Some may have tipped a little over the 100 mark, but not too far over). Thought I’d just re-post a few of them on here and air them out again. Some of you will remember them, but many of you were not following at the time they were written, so they will be fresh for you. Either way, I hope each of you finds at least one or two that you enjoy.
CARRIED ON A SONG
I heard the song today. As I walked through Hilliard’s department store, a customer opened a jewelry box, and the melody tinkled across the room. My breath caught in my chest. Tears sprang to my eyes. But my heart smiled. Every time I hear it, I think of you.
Roger loves me, and our boys are treasures I’d never part with, but my heart still aches for you. All those years ago, Fate decreed us bitter enemies in that horrible war between our nations. But as long as I live, my love will seek and find you in the strains of that song.
* * * * * * *
THE WRITTEN WORD
The quills were ancient. Mara had found them locked in a closet of the abby. But the points were sharp, the monks having taken great care of them. She sighed now. “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.”
* * * * * * *
FABEL ABLE
“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 the fable about just being yourself.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, my author started creating me to be a zebra. He gave me these hind legs. But then I saw a tiger and insisted on becoming a tiger instead. So he gave me this body. But when I saw a giraffe, I begged my author to make me a giraffe. So he stretched my neck. 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.”
* * * * * * *
SURPRISE, HONEY!
“Okay, you can open your eyes. . . . Well . . . what do you think?”
“What do you mean, what do I think?”
“My surprise!”
“This . . . this . . . MONSTROSITY!!??”
“It’s a famous landmark.”
“You mean you invested ALL our money in THIS?
“It will make a grand hotel; you’ll see.”
“No . . . I won’t see. I’m going home!”
“But . . . I thought you knew . . .”
“Knew? . . .
“Well, I used the money from our old house to —
“You WHAT!”
He ran as he’d never run before.
* * * * * * *
LOVE GROWS ON YOU
Virginia Creeper wasn’t beautiful and was generally considered a nuisance wherever she grew. But she had a kind heart, and when she heard sobbing out by the alley, she crawled over to investigate. She found Barney, the discarded garbage truck, soaking the ground with his tears. “Barney?”
“I-I-I’ve been thrown away! Dumped here; no one wants me now. Dead motor. And everybody says I-I-I stink!” His sobs were heartbreaking.
Virginia gathered her strength. Stretching, squirming, she pulled herself toward the unhappy truck. She reached up, grabbed his bumper, and curled around it, stretching higher and wider until she had completely embraced Barney in a comforting hug. “Don’t cry, Barney. I love you, and I’ll stick with you forever.”
* * * * * * *
FOG
The fog’s especially heavy tonight. It’s a good time to stay inside and write this letter. I can’t see three feet past the door. The lighthouse on the island has sounded the foghorn every two minutes for hours. You remember the island, don’t you? Where we buried him? I often wonder what would have happened if the fog had lifted in time for someone to see us digging the grave.
I wish you were here with me. I’m always chilled and shaky when there’s fog. It feels as if something’s choking me. Nights like this, I wonder if that’s how he felt as we tightened that rope around his neck until he stopped breathing. I wish you were here with me. I hate fog.
~~~
`
* * * * * * *
“
ONE LOOK WAS ALL IT TOOK
“The stone head at the very top of the building is what’s left of the king’s former messenger,” the guide explained. “Doomed by a curse to remain in that position, with eyes closed forever, seeing nothing. Punishment for looking lustfully at the king’s daughter.”
“You mean he’s still alive?” one tourist asked.
“Indeed, but he will never have a body or real eyes again unless the princess herself breaks the spell.”
“How?”
“She must publicly forgive him, then climb up and seal the forgiveness with a kiss.”
“And she refuses?”
“Oh, she’s willing enough, but … alas … she’s afraid of heights.”
~~~
* * * * * * *
A MAN OF VALUE
Eddie couldn’t hold back the tears as he stood at the building site, his hand gripped by Tony, an ox of a guy with tears in his own eyes. “Thanks, Ed, for all you’ve done here.” Tony and his family had lost everything, including their house. But today they’d received the key to a brand new home.
Eddie, serving the 7th of his 25-year sentence, had worked in the carpentry rehabilitation unit for three years now, making prefab elements for these low-income housing projects. “I’m just so grateful the warden gave me permission to be here for the presentation,” he said. He’d considered himself scum for most of his life, but today – wiping tears away with his shirt sleeve – he felt like a valuable human being with something worth giving to life.
He grinned at Tony. “Dang, I’m actually looking forward to the rest of my sentence, helping to build a better life for a lot of people.”
* * * * * * *
It’s Valentine’s week, so I thought it was time to make another visit to my archives. This time I sifted through all the ordinary stuff and dug around until I found the posts that had something to say about LOVE. I found bunches of them, but I chose 14 of my favorites to share one more time. (The number 14, of course, is in honor of Valentine’s Day being the 14th of the month.) I’ve posted the links to them below. Hope you find some of them to your taste and get a little shot of love to help you celebrate Valentine’s Day:
# 4: Hatred & War Cannot Quench Love
#7: Love Through The Eyes of Opie Taylor
# 9: Love Letters: 574 and counting
# 10: Valediction to a Passing Love
# 12: Behind the Scene: One Act Play
# 13: Focused: A One-Act Play to Lighten Your Day
~
Two old cronies sat on a bench at the edge of a small city park, their 78-year-old bones soaking up the sunshine.
“Ahhh, just smell that!” Harry said, taking in a deep breath, rapture shining from his face.
“What?” asked George.
“Love is in the air,” Harry replied, breathing deeply once more and smiling. “Mm-mm; Yes sir – love is in the air.”
“You’re daff, Harry. That’s just the cabbage cookin’ in the diner across the street. Wind’s from the south today.”
“Oh, come on, George, don’t be so mundane. Give yourself over to your senses, man.”
“Senses? Why, Harry, you ain’t got the good sense God gave a duck.”
Looking offended, “Why would you say that?”
“Well, look at you. 78 and a half, if you’re a day, and you’re sittin’ here on this comfortable bench with not a care in the world, but you’re talkin’ about love like it was somethin’ glorious and somethin’ you want.”
“Well, it is somethin’ I want.”
“No it ain’t. You done had it – four wives — and all it did was cost you lots of money – first for getting’ married, then for buyin’ houses, then for buyin’ your wives everything they wanted, then for the divorces, and now – every month – for the alimony – four alimonies.”
“But it’s Spring, Harry! Don’t that make you feel alive and ready to take a chance on love again?”
“No, it don’t! I’ve had it with love. It’s three square meals a day, a nice warm bench to rest on, and a trustworthy buddy or two that makes life worth livin’. Those things are better than what you call love any day.”
“Well, I do remember hearin’ a quote by somebody once that said havin’ all your own teeth and a good solid bank account beat marriage for makin’ a body happy.”
Nodding his head, George answered. “There you go. Now you’re talkin’ sense. And since we both have our own teeth still yet, and money in our pockets, what say we go across the street for a big helping of Archie’s corned beef and cabbage? It’s smellin’ so good right now my stomach’s growling.”
Sighing, Harry got up from the bench. “Okay, George. I guess it is time for lunch, but I can smell love in the air.”
“It’s the corned beef and cabbage, you dope. Cain’t you tell the difference?”
“George, my friend,” Harry said, placing his hand on his friend’s shoulder as they jiggled their legs to work out the stiffness, “It may smell like corned beef and cabbage to you, but it’s got magic in it. In fact, I have this feelin’ that love is just around the corner for me.”
They both started across the street, but just as they reached the center of the road, a car came swerving around the corner and squealed to halt, just missing George and knocking Harry flat. A beautiful woman jumped from the car and ran to kneel down beside Harry.
“Oh, sir, are you alive? Are you alive?”
Harry opened his eyes, looked up into her delightful face with its halo of golden curls, and grinned broadly. “By golly, I told George love was just around the corner.” He got up and dusted himself off. Taking the young woman’s arm, he escorted her to the curb. “How about I buy you lunch, pretty lady,” he said, beaming at her. “Let’s step into the diner, here, and talk about our future.”
George followed them into the diner but went to sit at the lunch counter all by himself, shaking his head in frustration.
“What’ll you have,” Archie asked him.
“Confound it! Just give me a order of that love potion you got brewin’ in there.”
“Huh?”
“You know – that derned corned beef and cabbage.”
~~~
Photo: Creative Commons Attribution Share Alike 3.0 Licence.
Julia’s 100-Word Challenge for Grownups has reached its 162nd week as we begin 2015. Her prompt this week for the story is the following phrase:
“… as I put the decorations away, I …”
Check out her site and get the simple rules for participating in the challenge.
My story is below:
THE SECRET GIFT
My saddest Christmas ever. Jobless now; no money for food or rent; no family to help. I’d cried myself bleary-eyed for days. Government assistance was unthinkable. As I put Grandmother’s decorations away, I thought of how much I missed her – courageous woman, widowed, raising six children on her meager seamstress income. I missed her sorely and wished I weren’t such a failure in comparison.
The tiny envelope bearing my name was taped inside the bottom of an ornament box. I’d never noticed it before. It held a diamond necklace and a note from Grandmother: “I prayed you’d discover this when you need it most. It’s worth $25,000. Use it wisely. Merry Christmas.”
~~~
The Daily Post issued another 10-minute free-write challenge this morning. So I decided, since I didn’t have anything else to do — except edit a novel for a budding author, grade 7 stories for Saturday’s writing class, and wash a cabinet full of dishes that had been sitting and waiting for my kitchen drain to get unplugged — I’d sit here and write. (I’m also a procrastinator.) I glanced over at a ceramic nose on a pedestal — a friend’s gift that is to be used as a repository for my glasses. All at once I heard the first line of this story running through my head. I let my imagination take flight, and 10 minutes later here’s what I ended up with:
THE NOSE KNOWS
“Holy Cow! I’ve never seen a nose that big on anybody!”
“Exactly. Nobody wants a nose this big. And nobody wants their nose to feel this big either. But that’s what happens when sinus pressure builds up, congests the head and all the breathing passages, and virtually closes off the nose. Then it starts to feel big and bulbous and like some kind of foreign appendage that’s been stuck on where it doesn’t belong.”
“I don’t remember feeling like my nose was some ‘foreign appendage’ when I had a cold.”
“Well, you wouldn’t. You live on a plane above everyone else.”
“Now, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said. You think you live on a higher level than everyone else, so, naturally, you wouldn’t relate to the description. But most people will relate, and this bulbous nose, with its accompanying voice is going to sell ‘D-GEST’ decongestant to millions of people.”
“What kind of voice?”
“It sounds exactly like a stuffed up little kid. Just enough to get attention and garner sympathy from every adult who’s watching the commercial.”
“ I still don’t think it’s a winner, and Mr. Sanders is not going to like it either when you present it at the meeting today.”
“Wanna bet?”
“How much?”
“Let’s say if Sanders likes it, you have to buy me dinner Saturday night. And if he doesn’t like it, I’ll buy you dinner.”
“Okay, it’s a deal.”
(Three days later.)
“Hi, I just called to say I’ll be by to pick you up for dinner about 6:00 if that’s okay. Since Sanders loved my idea and I’m choosing the restaurant, I thought we’d do Longshore Seafood.”
(Cough, cough) “I’m sorry, Ben.” (Cough) “I can’t go tonight.” (Cough, cough).
“Oh, wow! You sound all stuffed up. In fact you sound terrible. What’s going on?”
“I have this horrible cold, and my nose feels like it weighs a ton! I wish I could cut it off.”
“Hmmmm. See … I told you that’s how it feels. Tell you what. I’ll be right over with a box of D-GEST. It’s just become the hottest thing on the market, you know.”
~
At some point in my past, I read that Raymond Carver once offered advice to writers about what to do if their stories seemed to lag or hit a boring place. His suggestion was to have a man come through a door with a gun in his hand.
That idea intrigued me – much more than I expected – and, as a result, I decided to set myself a challenge — as follows: I am committing to write one story for every Saturday in August, in which – at some point in time – whether fitting or not – a man or woman does walk through a door with a gun.
During this exercise, I am going to do very little editing of my stories. Rather I will simply begin writing with whatever idea comes to mind and continue until the gunman appears on the scene. After that point, whatever happens ….
I’m hoping my readers will enjoy this experiment with me, but I also thought that some of you out there would like to participate and do your own “man-with-a-gun” stories.
If you do, please post the links to your stories in the “Comments” section of my story for that week. I’m posting a story today. If you write a story any day this week before next Saturday, please post your link in the “Comments” of my story that is dated today. If you want to wait and post only on Saturdays, I will try to have mine up each of the next four Saturdays by 12:01 a.m. – U.S. Central Daylight Savings time. That way, hopefully, many of my readers in other countries will be able to post at the start of their day if they choose.
I’m not setting any word limit, but if we try to keep them to 1500 words or less, I think we will have an easier time visiting each other’s blogs and reading everyone’s stories – that is if anyone else takes part. I hope you do.
Feel free to start this exercise at any time, or to write only one or two stories if you don’t have time for five. Frankly, I have no idea if I will meet the challenge or not, but I’m at least taking the plunge. And please remember that my blog does not post “R” or “X” rated material.
My first story is below:
TONY’S PROPOSAL
Tony couldn’t wait to get to work and tell his colleagues about the lottery ticket. He had never won anything in his life, but yesterday his bad luck had turned to good. Granted, he had won a small game – the prize was just $300.00 dollars – but to Tony, who always seemed to be on the losing end of everything he took part in, this win had him sailing along ten feet above the ground.
As he opened the door of the book store, he saw that Marie, the secretary/accountant was already at work. “Hey, Marie,” he called from the door and then skidded up to her desk, “guess what happened to me last night.”
“Hmmm,” she answered, only half paying attention as she pulled up the program she needed on her computer. “Let’s see … . Oh, I know … you won the lottery.”
She swung around and glanced at Tony when she said it, and noticed that he looked somewhat crestfallen. “That’s a lousy thing to guess,” he complained.
“Why?”
“Because that’s exactly what I did, and I was just sure you’d all be astounded.”
By that time the other two employees had arrived and were standing beside Marie’s desk. “You mean you really did win the lottery?” Randall asked.
“Well, not the biggy, but —” he grinned at each one of them individually. “But I did win $300.00.”
“Hey, congratulations,” Peter said, punching him lightly on the shoulder. “Way to go. Does that mean you’re treating us all to lunch?”
Tony hung his head for a second and then looked up at them sheepishly. “Well, to tell you the truth, I have it earmarked for something else already.”
“I know!” said Marie, her eyes alight. “You’re going to buy Sarah an engagement ring.”
Tony looked at her in astonishment. “For heaven’s sake, Marie, what are you – a mind reader?”
Marie shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t blame me if I’m just super smart.” Then she grinned conspiratorially. “Want me to help pick it out?”
Tony lifted his head in what he wanted to pass for a look of sophistication, but which really made him look more like a schoolboy with a pout. “ I already have it picked out, thank you. It’s a little more than the $300.00, but I have a small amount in a savings account.”
Randall spoke up then. “So, when are you going to give it to her?
“I think I’ll take her to dinner this Saturday and ask her to marry me while we’re at the restaurant.”
“Sounds good. Where are you going?”
“I’ll book a reservation at The Coral Reef – a table by the window so we can watch the sun set over the beach. I want all the romance I can get going for me because I’m not positive Sarah has marriage in her plans. She likes her independence.”
“Well, that’s the perfect place.” said Marie, just as the bell rang over the front door. “Oops, time to get to work.”
But this customer wasn’t a regular. He had a large scarf tied triangularly over his nose and mouth, and he carried a gun.
All four of the employees froze, and without being told to do so, lifted their hands in the air.
“That’s it. Nice and easy, and nobody gets hurt,” said the gunman. He looked at Marie. “Now, girlie, you just walk over to that cash register – nice and slow – and take out all the money and put it in this here bag,” he said, as he tossed an old cloth drawstring bag onto the counter beside the register. Then lay your purse down right beside the bag. And the rest of you,” he added, pointing the gun more robustly toward the three men, “start taking out your wallets; empty your pockets, and put it all in the bag.”
Tony sucked in his breath. He had cashed in the lottery ticket and had the $300.00 in his wallet. He couldn’t let this man steal the money for Sarah’s ring. “Now, wait just a minute!” he said, dropping his hands to his sides. The gunman jumped forward and pushed the gun to within two feet of Tony’s nose.
“No funny business. Empty all those pockets!”
“I will not! I have something important to do with my money, and you can’t have it.”
The gunman stepped even closer. “Look, Buddy, don’t be a fool. Empty those pockets before I get tired of waiting.”
“You have no right to my money or anyone else’s!” Tony said, throwing his left arm toward the man on an angle – just enough to throw the gunman off balance and cause an involuntary reaction in his hand. His hold on the gun was broken for only a couple seconds, but it was enough for Tony to grab the gun and turn it on the thief. His friends dropped their hands, and Tony asked Marie to call the police.
The robber’s eyes were huge with fear, and before anyone could even guess what he was going to do, he had turned and made for the door. Tony shot into the air, hoping to frighten him into stopping. It worked, but only momentarily. The man didn’t look back. His intuition told him that if Tony had been going to shoot him, he would have done it the first time he pulled the trigger, so the man snatched the door open and hurled himself through it, falling onto the sidewalk and rolling several feet. But he jumped up and started running before the others could collect their wits enough to try to stop him.
“Whew!” Randall said, and he knew he spoke for all of them, as they wiped sweat from their brows and upper lips and tried to get their stomachs to relax and their hands to stop shaking. Marie went back to her desk and slumped into the chair. Fifteen minutes later, the police arrived and took their statements – as well as the gun.
When the police had left, and the store was quiet once more, Marie looked at Tony. “You are the most romantic man I’ve ever known,” she said.
He looked dumbfounded. “I don’t think I understand.”
“Why, you risked your life to keep from giving up the money to buy an engagement ring for the woman you love. You really are a gallant knight.”
Tony grinned. “Maybe I’ll be sure and tell Sarah the whole story before I propose. She surely couldn’t turn down a man who was willing to risk his life to give her an engagement ring.” He sighed. “And just think: I may owe my success with this proposal to that guy with the gun. I’m kind of glad I didn’t kill him.”
~ ~ ~
THE NEXT PAGE
He turned the crusty pages of the 100-year-old biography he’d found in his great-great grandfather’s library – his touch gentle – reverent even – and his eyes anxious. The title – The Exceptional Life of Benjamin Stonewheeler – had grabbed his attention immediately because that name was also his. He had first assumed the book must be the biography of his grandfather, who had been Benjamin Stonewheeler the First, but none of the events in the story were descriptive of his grandfather’s life.
Instead, they described every major aspect of his own life through this current year – his 50th – but as the story continued, he was already another twenty-seven years into the future, living through experiences that he felt he should remember, but, of course, did not. This 15th chapter was recounting one particularly fateful day in that future – a day that found his life literally hanging in the balance – and with only two chapters remaining until the end of the book, he held his breath as he turned to the next page.
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Just a reminder that you always have an open invitation to visit my ‘STORYBOOK’ on Facebook. It’s a page of stories – nothing but stories. Uninterrupted free reading of my original short stories – and even an occasional excerpt from a novel – along with the link to read the rest of the story free as well.
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Here’s my own story in response to my “Tell Me A Story Saturday” challenge. Just follow the link to learn how to join in the fun. This week we are writing stories of 25 words or less.
A WOMAN SCORNED
“Annie! You’re attending my wedding?!”
“I’m the planner.”
“You? My ex-wife?!”
“Relax …. Here, this glass of champagne’s just for you …. It’ll all be over soon.”
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The Happy Wordcrafter 