This story is from a prompt. Write about a conversation with a stranger who turns out to not be a stranger. Include five different “clicks” that happen as your character begins to remember the person.
It was one of those lines that went nearly around the perimeter of Whole Foods when COVID embraced our town. Everyone stood their respectful distance from the stranger ahead and the stranger behind waiting as the line inched toward the three clerks at the front of the store. I was halted next to the deli section. Not a good thing since all I needed to buy was a bag of organic lettuce and one of organic arugula. My weakness is stinky French cheese. I eyed all the goodies, especially the creamy raclette and camembert that always enticed my taste buds into a dance of ecstasy. I averted my eyes and caught the smile of the man standing behind me. With raised eyebrows, he nodded toward the cheeses acknowledging the temptation. He looked oddly familiar but not. Click.
The five-day stubble beard was interrupted by a ragged trail of a scar scoring the left side of his face from temple to chin, nicking the side of his mouth. The scar pulled his mouth to the left with a little pucker so his smile was lopsided but never-the-less friendly. His left eye drooped.
“A reminder of Paris, eh?” he asked. “Oh, yes,” I replied inhaling the memories. Click
I turned to move my cart forward.
A low laugh, full and rich, rumbled smoothly from his belly to throat and made me look back again. His eyes, a deep brown, looked me over from tête to toe. Click.
“Imagine seeing you at a grocery store in Tucson after all these years and all those miles.” I stared hard at him again. “Do I know you?” “Does Les Deux Magots one midnight in July 2003 ring a bell?”
A warm melting quiver involuntarily coursed through my body. Click. Again, I moved my cart forward, my mind racing through a dense forest of memories of those balmy July evenings.
“Sorry, did I disturb you?” he asked quietly. “I can’t believe, it is you, Anthony. What happened?” I looked directly at his scar. He had easily been one of the most attractive men I’d ever met, let alone bedded. The magnetism had been more than skin deep but his handsome face had instant appeal.
“One of those crazy challenges I couldn’t resist.”
I pulled my cart out of the line and circled back to him. Standing well within the prohibited six-foot radius of personal space I could smell his signature Jaguar Black Classic cologne. The musk, cedar, and bitter orange combination was the clincher. Click.
The disruption in the orderly line was noted by the other patrons who dithered their carts attempting to reestablish regulation.
“A race?” “Of course. And I won. But the ending was,” he paused, “explosive – one might say.”
Again, the low laugh that sent me back in time. He pulled his cart out of line and a collective sigh ruffled through the systemized cart-pushers.
“Do you have someplace to be or could we grab a cup of coffee? I’m in town for just a few days. I was going to look you up and I’m amazed at our serendipitous meeting. Meant to be, I guess.”
We left our carts at the end of the deli section and walked over to the coffee bar.
“Two French press Carte Noir, s’il vous plait.” Anthony told the barista.
I smiled. Ah, the memories that order brought back and it wasn’t just one midnight.
This is a story I submitted to our Oro Valley Writers’ Forum. The story had to be 300 words or less. This is based on a real “character” in our family. Names were changed even though Lila is totally recognizable by those who know her. This story would make her smile with a wink.
The Coquette
Lila knew how to get attention. First, she always wore a hat. She liked to make a statement even when she went to the grocery store. Her closet was full of hat boxes. Lila also loved men. She was expert at catching the eye of a male. She was petite and moved like a dancer on tiny feet. Her large blue eyes cast about for prey when she entered a room. Then her lashes would lower like a butterfly folding its wings as soon as she secured the attention of a particular fellow.
One day my husband and I picked Lila up to go meet my in-laws at a favorite local restaurant. Lila wore a yellow straw hat with red cherries decorating the brim. My father-in-law set his baseball cap on the ledge at the end of the row of tables where several others had placed their hats. We ordered lunch. I watched Lila, out of the corner of my eye, scouting the room. A tall lanky man in his mid-forties came in and was seated at a table nearby. He placed his ballcap on the ledge also. His eyes drifted to our table and Lila gave him a nod. He smiled and went about his lunch. When it was time to leave, Lila quickly got up and went to the ledge where the hats lay and, snatching up the stranger’s ballcap, announced in a loud voice, “Oh Walt, don’t forget your hat.”
“That’s not mine,” my father-in-law replied picking up his own hat.
The stranger looked up and stood. “a – that’s my hat, Miss,” he said.
“Oh I’m sorry. I could have sworn it was my friend’s,” she said, smiling sweetly. Objective met. Lila was 92 and had buried three husbands.
When writing, to clear your mind, it is sometimes fun to find a prompt that stretches your imagination, gets you out of a rut, and lets your brain breathe. This story is what came to me instantly from a prompt to write a one-page story, poem, or essay about a trinket, a twenty-minute write. Now there are endless possibilities in that direction. What is a trinket? Is it a treasured bobble given you by your grandmother? Is it a fun reminder of a trip to the fair? or to Italy? Sometimes I need to be flexible about the one-page directive. Many stories are handwritten so the “one-page” doesn’t count because I transcribe them to computer. Then one–page can be fiddled by changing margins and font size unless otherwise restricted. The idea though is to be free, unloose your imagination. Let yourself go.
Effie’s Trinket
“Euphemia. Euphemia. Come in for supper,” her mother called from the screen door into the backyard.
Effie scrunched down so she couldn’t be seen from the back porch. Old Elmer’s giant arms embraced her, fanning his huge green-gold and orange leaves to conceal the girl’s hideaway. Effie’s stomach gurgled. It had been hours since she ran away from home and maybe she was a bit hungry. She held Trinket in her two hands, cooing to him. “We don’t need food, Trinkie. We’ll live on moonlight and magic.” Trinket nuzzled his spikey head under her chin, his grey-blue eyes blinking as he stared up at her.
Effie’s mom went back into the kitchen, the screen door slamming behind her. “Go ahead, sit down. I’ll give her another five minutes and then we’ll eat,” she said to her husband Eustis and son Micah. The round oak kitchen table was set for four. Food waited on the stove top to be served. Glasses of honey mead, diluted by water for the children, were in place.
“Ma, I’ll go find her,” said Micah.
“You’ll stay just where you are,” Eustis proclaimed. “You’re the reason she walked out this afternoon. Why did you have to tease her again about her dragon?”
“Aww, Dad. She’s nine and too old to be carrying around a baby dragon. I’m embarrassed when my friends see her.”
“Well, son, you may be a mature fourteen-year-old now but it wasn’t all that long ago you rode your unicorn, Cool Whip, up and down the county road. I think you were about Effie’s age when you told us he took you over the moon one cloudless full-moon night.”
“Euphemia Jane. It’s time to eat. I made chicken pizza and mashed potatoes with butter and bacon bits.” Dorothy called again from the back door.
She scanned the yard for a sign of her daughter. Effie had a habit of running away when she was mad. She had never wandered beyond the boundaries of their two-acre property but there was always a first time. Dorothy looked at the shed, a common retreat. Blackberry vines that covered the building didn’t look disturbed. In summer, Effie would come in with scratches on her arms and legs from reaching for the ripest fattest berries. Her fingers, her mouth and tongue would be stained royal purple. But it was autumn, not the season for blackberries. She glanced up at Old Elmer. The tree sat halfway between the shed and the vegetable garden. There, about a quarter of the way up the seventy-foot colossus, she saw a glimmer of pink. Effie’s pale gold hair glowed pink in red rays of sunset.
“Euphemia Jane Charles, come down this instant. Bring Trinket with you. Your brother will leave him alone.”
The empty feeling in Effie’s tummy and her aching legs from being crouched for so long as well as her mother’s promise that Micah would leave Trinket alone persuaded her to shimmy down the tree with the baby dragon secured under her arm. “Thanks Elmer,” she said as her toes touched the soft cushion of fallen leaves beneath the tree and she set Trinket on the ground. She started to walk toward the house but the golden cord that tethered Trinket to her ankle became taut. Trinket cocked his head, lavender wings folded tightly against his body, refusing to follow her.
“Com’on, Trinkie, let’s give Micah one more chance. He didn’t really mean it when he said he would take you away and drop you at the end of the earth. I won’t let that happen even if I have to carry you always. You’ll be getting bigger and pretty soon he won’t be able to bully you. Your wings are almost strong enough to carry you where he can’t reach you. One of these days your fire starter will work and it will serve him right if you give him a little scorch. She bent down and picked Trinket up cuddling him close to her chest. He gave a little snort, a happy snort, waggled his pink and purple scales, and settled in her arms.
They went in for supper.
The End
I gave this story to a friend for comment, not about grammer but about the flow of the story. He is a serious writer/researcher. His comment was, “So, is Trinket a stuffed animal? Or a cat?” “What do you mean? Trinket is a dragon,” I replied. “It says it pretty clearly.” “Oh,” says he, and that was the end of his comments. It is useful to remember that a reader filters your stories through their experience. They may have a completely different interpretation of it than was your intent.
The whole idea of writing from a quick prompt is to exercise a separate part of your brain and give yourself the freedom to explore topics from different, hopefully, fresh angles. You may find a nugget of something useful to your main project in those musings.
I am blessed with dozens of people who live in my head. They are generally unobtrusive unless called upon to inhabit a story. I also don’t know where their names come from. I don’t recall ever hearing the name Euphemia or Effie before. Once these people have been let out, they become a part of my mind-family. I’m never lonely. I know them all so well. For instance, Eustis, in this story is a very real character to me. He has tomato-soup-red, short, curly hair, black-framed glasses, and is a scientist who works for a small chemical company in the mid-west. He always has a slight grin on his face as though he is observing life through bubble glass. He hums a little song frequently with part of the chorus “I got Memphis blues, right down to my shoes.” I don’t know if that is a real song or not. It just popped into his head. Although he is a minor character in this story, he may reappear in a different story at a different time with his unusual family. That is unless they all expire from his wife’s cooking. I cannot imagine serving such a meal to my family.
Another person I wrote a story about is Hannah, a black woman born in the late 1890s who is a baker in Wickenberg Arizona in the 1920s – 30s. I know all about her childhood and her family who were sharecroppers in Mississippi, and slaves, a generation before that. I know her journey to independence as a businesswoman. I’ve seen (in my imagination) the headstones of the family in the county cemetery. She has an amazing story to tell. One day I may put it on the blog. These people are very real to me but they are all born from my imagination. Sometimes I think I should put a disclaimer on my stories like the old TV shows that says, “Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental”.
The date, December 16th. The dawn of a very cold day in Boston. A light snow had fallen during the night leaving the ground covered in a thin layer, and clouds of smoke spewed from chimneys adding more gray to the skies.
I’m out of tea for breakfast. I just want one lousy cup of tea and the tea box is empty. I cannot believe I didn’t get a tin the last time I was at the merchant. I’ll go next door to Martha Mason. She always has an abundance of everything. She could be called a hoarder but I’d never say it to her face because she often has just what I need, like tea, and she is always willing to share. A beneficent hoarder.
I pull my woolen great coat on over my shabby linen dress and stuff two corn husks in the bottom of my shoes to keep out the wet. I step outside my door. I’m grabbed from behind, suddenly engulfed in a mass of humans. No, they’re not human, they are Mohawk Indians. I’m bumped and shoved into the midst of their surging bodies. Indians! With tomahawks and painted faces. What are they doing in town? They are sweeping me along with them. Oh my god, I’ll be killed. Bitter panic rises from my stomach to my throat. I try to cry out, terror overwhelming my desire for tea. I can’t even scream. I’m trying to stay upright amid the surging horde. I don’t want to be trampled. I almost lose my footing, but I’m bolstered by the crush of savages around me. I can smell the sweat of their leather-clad torsos. There must be over a hundred of them. They are stealthy and silent except for their heavy breathing. As the tide of heaving bodies forces me along, I look into the face of the Indian to my right. Wait, that’s no Indian, it’s Mister Borwin, the tea merchant.
“What are you doing?” my voice in shrill cry.
“Shhhh, quiet missy,” he says, “We’re almost there”.
We traveled the eight blocks toward the harbor. I can see ships swaying at anchor. Suddenly whoops and yells erupt from the mob and they pick up speed as they dash aboard the ships. I’m pushed aside and land abruptly on my rump in a pile of snow. The “Indians” begin picking up one great crate after another, throwing them overboard into the harbor. I realize the crates they are throwing are full of tea. Tea! I raise myself up and jostle my way aboard the closest ship. As a crate is raised it breaks open. I grab two tins of tea and rush home for my breakfast cuppa.
*Flash fiction is a short short story with plot, action and characters, no more than a page in length.
What is marriage? It is secret music heard by only two people. What keeps a couple together? Children, common beliefs, love, lust, that indefinable something? Two people sing their song together with a repetitive chorus that they both know by heart. Their song is sometimes in harmony, sometimes not. This story is not taken from real life …but it could be.
“Do you want toast or English muffins with our omelet?” Lila asked. She and Winston were sitting on their front patio, he with the Daily Star and coffee, she with her Sunday mimosa. Actually, it was her second. They watched the sun spill its radiance over the mountaintop like a bright scroll unfurling down toward the valley. This summer morning was slightly cooler than usual, but the heat was beginning to build. “What?” Winston leaned toward her cocking his head. “Do you prefer an English muffin or toast?” Lila spoke sharply louder. “Don’t yell at me, just don’t mumble. I’ll have whatever you are having.” Lila shrugged and muttered, “English muffin.” “What?” “I’ll fix us both an English muffin. It’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes. Do you want to eat outside on the back patio or in the kitchen?” She faced him, carefully enunciating each word. “Are Jen and Mike coming over this today?” “Yes. Jennifer said something about bringing the kids to swim around three. We’ll eat breakfast out back. The day’s starting so beautifully. I want to enjoy it as much as we can before it heats up. I’ll set the table out there.” “Are they staying for dinner?” “I didn’t ask.” She turned and walked into the house. “What?”
Lila went into the kitchen to cook the omelet. Winston folded his paper, picked up his cup, and followed her into the house. Bowl, pan, eggs, salt, pepper, butter, cheese, green onion, muffins, Lila began to prepare breakfast.
“Wanna watch the CBS Sunday Show?” he asked. Lila split the English muffins and put them in the toaster oven. “Breakfast will be ready in fifteen minutes. It’s DVR’d, so let’s wait until after breakfast. Take some silverware and napkins out back to the table and I’ll bring the water.” Lila made sure he was looking directly at her as she spoke. “Oh, we’re eating outside this morning?”
Lila nodded whisking the eggs until fluffy and adding a wee bit of sour cream. Winston dampened a washcloth and went out the sliding glass door to the back patio to wipe off the table. Birds were chirping in the trees, a mixed choir. He returned to get the silverware and napkins, giving Lila a peck on the back of her neck as he passed her in the kitchen.
“Who loves ya, baby? he said with a wink. Then, “Beautiful morning.” “Really? I hadn’t noticed.” “So are the kids staying for dinner?” “No, I think they’ll just be here for an hour or so.” “I could barbecue.” “I’d rather not have the commotion this evening. Let’s just have a quiet day, just us two.” “But you said they were coming to swim this afternoon.” “Only for an hour or so.” “Do you want to go to a movie?” “Not especially. I want to enjoy a quiet day, maybe read, a little nap. You know …a lazy Sunday.” “What?” “I said no, not especially.” “I miss those kids. We haven’t seen them for a couple of weeks. We used to see them every weekend and even during the week.” “They’re growing up. Jen and Mike have their hands full getting them to all their activities. Grandma and Grandpa don’t fit into their schedules as much as we used to. You remember what our lives were like with three active kids at home. It’s hectic.” “Well, I remember seeing my folks and your folks every weekend.” “It may have seemed like it to you, but we were lucky to see them once a month except at soccer or basketball games.”
“Maybe they’re spending time with Jen’s parents,” he said. “Maybe.” “Did we do something to tick them off?” “Win, there is nothing wrong with our relationship with Jen, Mike, and their kids. They’re just busy. “I miss them.” “I know.” She added, “You need to get a hobby.” “What about Bobby?” “I said you need a hobby.” “Bobby is such a good little golfer. Maybe I could take him out on Saturdays and give him some tips.” “Mike is doing a good job, just like you did with him.”
After breakfast and the obligatory Sunday news program, Lila started the weekly laundry. Then she sat in her favorite cane-backed rocking chair to read. Winston turned to the Golf Channel with the sound off to watch the final round of a tournament he had followed since Thursday. He dozed in his recliner.
Later, Lila pulled out the pool toys from the backyard shed. Winston took the cover off the pool, checked the pH levels, and swept off the patio. A little after three o’clock Mike’s family drove up and the cacophony of a nine, seven, and five-year-old broke into the Sunday quiet. They moved quickly through the house to the backyard tossing beach towels onto the chaise as they passed.
“Say hi to grandma and grandpa kids,” Jennifer hollered. “Hi Grandma, hi Grandpa,” came the chorus of cherubs as they swirled, swiveled, and flew into the pool.
Jennifer shook her head and gave Lila a hug. Mike and Winston took patio chairs into the shade to watch the mini-Olympic challenges as they developed. Carla, being the oldest, was of course the director. Bobby and Kyle followed her lead lining up on the edge and diving to swim helter-skelter toward the opposite end of the pool.
“How has the week been?” Lila asked Jennifer as she got the iced tea and lemonade out of the refrigerator. “Oh, you know the typical mad dash from event to event, friend to friend. I swear, I’ll be glad when school starts again and we can have a routine that doesn’t involve six hours a day in the car.” Jennifer got glasses and napkins and put them on the big tray. “Well, you know we can help out. If you guys need an extra set of wheels, we’d be happy to take one of them to a something, whatever.” “I know you would and often I think of it but most things are so spur of the moment I hate to call. Maybe we can ask you to take one of them to lessons. They have tennis, swimming, and horseback riding. I’ll talk to Mike about it. It would be a big relief to have at least one of the bases covered.” “Who has what? Doesn’t Carla have horseback riding?” “Yeah, and swimming but not on the same day that Bobby and Kyle have it. Bobby and Kyle take lessons together on Thursday morning. Carla has horseback riding on Thursday morning and swimming on Tuesday morning. Both Carla and Bobby have tennis on Monday morning. I usually take Kyle to the park while they have lessons. And interspersed with all that is friend time. I’m either dropping one of them off at a friend or picking a friend up for the day. It really does get crazy. I know that Mike is very sensitive about getting you guys involved in the whole thing so I’ll talk to him first.” “Why?” “Honestly?” Jennifer stopped and put down the tray, turning to face Lila, “He may be mad at me for saying this but I think honesty is the best way to deal with it.”
Lila perched on a seat at the kitchen counter bar. “What’s up?”
“Mike is concerned about Dad’s hearing and he thinks he is a bit unsteady driving. He knows how much Dad doesn’t like to be told he can’t hear and he sure as heck doesn’t want to bring up driving skills with him so he just said he doesn’t want the kids to be in the car with him driving.”
The air sighed out of Lila’s lungs. She knew it was just a matter of time before this conversation would happen. She remembered having the same talk with her mother about her dad when his driving became questionable.
“Jen, you know we wouldn’t put the kids in danger. Ever.” “I know you wouldn’t purposely do it but it has crept up so slowly we didn’t think you noticed.” “Oh I’ve noticed but I guess I haven’t really made….” “I know, I know. It’s hard. If you would promise to do the driving, I think Mike would be okay with it. He’s just really worried about Dad. The hearing thing, you know. He misses half of what is said to him and that could cause a problem with directions or instructions for taking the kids somewhere.” “We finally have an appointment with the audiologist. He agreed to go because I said I was having trouble hearing. He set up an appointment for both of us to have a checkup. I’ll talk to Win but I may need Mike to man up and back me up. If he says something I think Winston will pay more attention.” “My dad stopped driving completely and mom only goes back and forth a few blocks to buy groceries once a week. I’ve been running errands and taking them to an appointment here and there but I just don’t have the time to do it all the time. We found a car service that will pick them up and take them to some things. They’re ten years older than you guys and they don’t get around like they used to. For fifteen to twenty dollars they can get most anyplace they need to go and back home. It’s a small price to pay for their safety. And they only use it a couple of times a month. There is even a free public bus service for seniors, if you don’t have to go at a set time.” “Good to know but we’re not there yet.” “Of course not. I’m just saying there is help when the time comes.” “Too bad it’s not for transporting active kids all over tarnation,” Lila quipped. “I like to go to their lessons and stay to watch but sometimes it’s just too much and I take that time to run errands so I don’t have to drag them with me. Mike helps when he can in the evenings especially after school starts but on summer days it’s mostly me.”
“Hey, where are the drinks?” Mike shouted from the patio. “We’re coming. Hold your shirt,” Jennifer shouted back, then turned to Lila. “I’ll talk with Mike tonight, and we’ll all talk later, okay?” “Yeah, thanks for your honesty, honey. You’ve given me something to think about. I’ll talk to Winston too.”
Our Oro Valley Writers’ Forum recently challenged the members to write a story in six sentences. I took up the challenge. It is fun to practice writing in a variety of ways. There were no restrictions as to genre or topic. Below is my story.
In the darkness of the midnight hour, the lines clang against the main mast as the little sloop, Step Two, is released from anchor and begins to float out of the cove in a rising tide. The jib unfurls in the freshening wind from starboard. She sets the wheel aiming toward open waters, then bends to her task. Her back and shoulder muscles strain as she heaves the body overboard, head first, and watches it slice through the inky waters into the deep along with the bloody knife. She exhales a deep sigh of freedom realizing he’ll terrorize no more. Light from the quarter moon creeps from between clouds casting shadows across her scarred face.
A few months ago I wrote another six sentence story for an on-line challenge. This is that story. It is titled Bi-polar. I feel I must add that it is not auto-biographical. I shared it with some in my writing group and they immediately expressed sympathy for me. I had to explain it was made up but comes from observation, reading, and listening to other people’s stories.
It comes without warning, unexpected, expected, furious, fierce, brittle, hateful. It goes the same, expected, unexpected as sweetness returns. calm consideration and laughter. My lover is possessed by a djinn called by many names, bi-cycles, bi-polar cycles, stealthily stealing love. I am thrown as from a swiftly moving car into brambles of pain, reason unknown, known, unknowable. My heart is calloused, trust gone an unbridgeable distance, leaving shredded tatters of love with only a gossamer thread remaining. The darkness of her despair, unreachable, unclaimed grasps my helpless heart building an unbreachable wall between.
Fiction is based on so many things from a writer’s experiences, reading, and research. While there may be tiny pieces of me in my fiction writing, it is mostly made up in my head. It is the inhabiting of other realities that makes writing fun for me. Some of them are dark. Some are ridiculous and some are funny. These two examples are on the dark side. I don’t think anyone thought the first story was autobiographical…but you never know. I have owned a sailboat.
Prompts: Whether you write fiction, non-fiction, or memoir, story is the important element. Conveying facts through story is the best way to engage your readers. Feeding facts one after another will put a reader to sleep quicker than snow melts at the equator. Creating a story within the boundaries of a prompt (facts) trains your brain to be creative (narrative). This is an example of a quick write making a one-page story from a given set of “facts”.
Jackie’s Prompt: Write one or two pages and include words: pliable, awkward, distance, imagine, sensible. Start the story with: “I picked it up to have a better look and …”
These were the things that first came to my mind.
… I discovered it was alive
…it bit me
….it appeared to be a diamond ring
I picked it up to have a better look and I probably would not have noticed it except for a brief parting of clouds, a peek-a-boo moment of sun. The day was covered in a thick gray blanket to keep out all but the faintest daylight at three o’clock. In that moment there was a brilliant flash in the pile of yesterday’s leaves. Is it real? Of course not was the answer that came instantly to mind. How would a diamond ring be in my backyard buried in a pile of leaves that we raked yesterday? I shoved it into my pocket, vowing to check with my housemate. I knew for sure it could not belong to Collin, but it might have belonged to Ellen, his sister. She has a collection of jewelry to rival Musk’s collection of Tweets. Possibly it fell from his pocket as we did yard work. Why would he have it? Yesterday had been so much fun. We laughed and plunged into piles of leaves like little children as we cleaned up the last of fall’s debris beneath the oak, maple, and sycamore trees that bordered our property. My job today was to bag up all the piles while Collin was gone. The trashman comes tomorrow.
When I finished pushing leaves into twenty-four black garbage bags I went into the house for a cup of tea. The warmth of the kitchen melted icy fingers that had clamped onto my neck and shoulders in the late afternoon chill. I wrapped my hands around the hot cup letting the steam drift up into my face. I sat at the kitchen counter and pulled the ring from my pocket, a simple wide white gold band with an emerald cut diamond of several carats. It was striking. Could it be real?
I reached for my cell phone. Collin left early this morning for a business trip to Hopewell, a distance of about two hundred miles, so I didn’t expect him to be home tonight. I wanted to let him know I’d found the ring in case he was worried. I could not imagine why he’d have it, but I knew he’d be concerned if he discovered it missing. He answered on the second ring.
“Busy?” I asked
“No, the meetings are over and I’m on my way to a hotel. It seemed more sensible to stay over than trying to get home tonight.”
“Yeah, I figured that. Guess what? I found the ring.”
“What ring?” He sounded hesitant.
“Did you lose a ring in the backyard yesterday while we were raking?”
“I didn’t have a ring.” His voice was gruff, his answer felt abrupt.
“That’s strange. How would a ring get into our leaf pile?” There was an awkward pause.
“What kind of ring?” he asked.
“It looks like a diamond.”
“Do you think it’s real?”
“Don’t know, I’m not an expert. It’s pretty and I’d say if it is real, it’s impressive. I’ll put it in my jewelry box and you can check it out when you get home. We’ll figure it out. Seems strange though to have a ring randomly show up in the backyard.”
“Don’t tell anybody about it. Okay?”
I am usually very pliable when it comes to Collin’s requests. We’ve been best friends for more than a decade and suffered through each other’s ups and downs; his boyfriends, my boyfriends, his business ventures, my writing. Something in his voice sent an alert. My skin prickled.
“What’s up, Collin?”
“What’d you mean?”
“Is it or is it not your ring?”
“No, I told you. But just don’t make a big deal of it. We’ll talk when I get home. I’m leaving now. See you in about four hours.” He hung up the phone.
What do you know differently from the story’s beginning to the end? This is an example of turning facts into narrative.
This story was born from a prompt to anthropomorphize an element. I chose Time.
I believe in second chances. I believe that even in seemingly impossible cases, I can offer a broken soul reprieve. Sometimes a person must be stripped to their lowest point to find what is truly important. I watched Nathan and his brother go through tough times and I think they deserve another chance. This is Nathan’s story. A story of redemption. A story I, Time, healed.
After leaving the plains behind, the terrain became hilly. Hills and hollers, Nathan thought as the train wound through a narrow valley between steep rises on both sides of the tracks. He was on his way home for the last time. He tried to stop thinking, forecasting, what it would be like to see his mother again. He imagined the furrows of worry etched in her face were even deeper than three years ago when she visited him in jail.
Her frail body would be held together by a thick wrap of sadness. Her youngest son was dead. Not just dead but executed by the state of Colorado. The only execution since 1976. What she didn’t know was that her remaining son would be dead in a matter of days. Nathan couldn’t live with the guilt he carried over Jamie. It had been Nathan who pulled the trigger, not Jamie. Nathan’s plan, Nathan’s mistake. But he didn’t find the stones to step up and admit it and Jamie kept his silence throughout the trial, never giving his brother up to the authorities. He could no longer carry that burden.
He had to see his mother and clear her mind about Jamie’s innocence. Nathan knew her love was unconditional, and she would never in her heart believe that either of her sons could be so evil. But there she was wrong. Nathan planned the robbery and carried the gun. Jamie did not even know about the gun until Nathan pulled it from his jacket pocket. The store owner rushed Nathan and the gun went off. It became a distorted nightmare. Jamie grabbed the gun from Nathan and, as they ran from the store, he dumped it into a trash can in the alleyway. Of course, the police found it and Jamie’s prints were on it, so he was charged with the murder. Nathan had gone to jail for ten years as an accessory, and he was now on parole for ten more years. Jaimie had been executed just a few days ago, after two appeals.
The train entered a tunnel, the darkest longest tunnel. Lights on the train flickered and went out. It felt like a steep downward trek. As deep and dark as Nathan imagined the trip to hell would be. There was a mumbling from other passengers, but no one left their seat. It is my turn to step in.
I am Aion, the god of Time. You might be more familiar with my twin Chronos but he is only the god of measured time, the one that is marked off by clocks, hourglasses and other man-made instruments. He fulfills the human need to track time, quantify and qualify it. I, on the other hand, am the god of the continuum. I never stop. I am neither forward nor backward. I am always. I am forever. Occasionally I find it necessary to meddle in the affairs of humans when I see an example such as the one presented by Nathan and Jamie, two truly good-hearted young men who went astray for what they believed was a good cause. Their sister suffered from a rare cancer and the expense of her treatment decimated family resources. In what they considered a desperate moment they made a poor decision with deadly consequences.
Steena died without any remedy and the brothers went to jail. Their mother was thrice impacted in sorrow, losing her daughter, a son to the system and now Nathan considers suicide. When the train leaves the tunnel the poor decision to rob a store will be voided. I took Nathan back to the crucible of decision and gave him a second chance. He is indeed on his way to see his mother, but it is to manage his sister’s funeral. He is meeting his brother and as a family they will mourn but be united. The intervening ten years were spent in productive ways. He met his wife and they collaborated with doctors to start a charity to raise awareness and research grants for others who suffered as Steena did.
The train exited the tunnel. Nathan squinted at the sudden brightness and glanced out the window as the train sped past an open area of farmland. It all looked familiar, but not. He thought only of seeing his mom, comforting her in her grief and being once again with his brother after ten year’s separation. It would be a happy/sad occasion. At least they would all be together.
I, Aion, can change the moments of an event but I cannot completely erase some of the impressions. My little brother Kairos oversees the significance of an experience. Impressions may be imprinted in a person and come as flashbacks or deja-vu moments. People often believe they have been somewhere or seen someone before. Actually, I have rearranged a period in their life so the connections are blurred, but Kairos has stamped it with a sense of meaning that is irretrievable.
wonkagranny 