I usually run a Keith Channing prompt on Tuesday. Keith is off in the UK living in a motor home while getting ready to close on a new house. Needless to say, he has no time for prompts. So here is a finger point prompt. The idea is to open a book to a random page and point at the text. The word closest to your finger is the prompt. I chose the book, Circumstances of Childhood by that world-famous (cough) author John W. Howell. I opened it to a page and pointed. Before I knew what the word was, I took a photo of the process. The word is “preset.” Not the best, but I’ll give it a go.
“About time, you woke up. I’ve been up for hours.”
“Why didn’t you just wake me?”
“I looked at your timer device, and it was preset for now.”
“Then why so upset?”
“I just want to make sure we are on course.”
“Why wouldn’t we be?”
“It’s a hundred-year journey. Anything can happen.”
“I think you need to relax. Did you make coffee?”
“Yes. Here’s your vacuum cup.”
“Thank you. Now let me look at the position calculator. Hmmm. Seems to be okay.”
“So how long until we reach our destination?”
“The calculator puts us in the outer band of the planet’s solar system. Looks like we should be there by dinner time. By the way anything to eat? I have a hundred-year appetite.”
“Yes. I prepared a wholesome, wake-up meal. Here is your vacuum tube.”
“Umm, this is good. Tastes like chicken and waffle.”
“I know I thought the same thing. I think we are going to enjoy our visit. There is more where that came from. This planet is full of these animals. It is like a renewable resource.”
“Okay, let me focus on the preset landing sequence.”
“I can help?”
“Yes, you can. Look at the control panel and just let me know the setting as I read the sequence.”
“Okay. I’m ready.”
“Preset destination?”
“On.”
“Preset speed?”
“Locked.”
Planet identification?”
“Third, from their sun.”
“Landing presets.”
“On.”
Okay, there is nothing we have to do for the next couple of hours but dream of getting out teeth into some of those tasty Earthlings.”
As a member of Rave Reviews Book Club, I am proud to showcase several exceptional writers. All are members of the literary section of the club titled Rave Writers – International Society of Authors. RWISA.
Today I want to welcome Suzanne Burke with her story. Thursday’s Child.
THURSDAY’S CHILD
By
Suzanne Burke.
Copyright 2019.
She hadn’t really intended this to happen. Oh, sure, she’d thought about it often enough, but thinking about something didn’t make it a crime. A convergence of circumstances had prompted her choice. Regret was such an outmoded commodity.
She checked her latex gloves fitted well, and flicked her dark eyed gaze across to where Peter Cameron lay, still and silent. “You brought this on yourself, Peter. Did you think me a complete fool?”
Carol moved across to the edge of the bed and stood over him. She reached down and flicked the blonde hair back from his forehead, then gently rested her hand there.
“You’re cold. Shall I fetch you a blanket?” Her laughter soothed her.
The man’s eyes were now open, and Carol revelled in the fear she witnessed in their blue depths. “Ah, there you are. How do you feel?” She laughed again. “Oh, silly me. You can’t feel anything. Can you? Such a handy little drug, and no taste I believe, especially in your malt whiskey.”
Peter Cameron’s blue eyes registered the words and Carol watched on as he commanded his brain to activate his fingers, his arms. He had no control of his voicebox. His brain refused to obey. He remained still.
“Oh, don’t fret so, darling. You’re not going to die … yet. The paralysis will last just long enough for my needs. It’s all in the timing. You need to helplessly contemplate what I may have in store for your immediate future.”
Carol walked away from him, and headed for the bar, whistling happily in anticipation. She placed his used glass and the bottle of Glenfiddich into her handbag, then poured a stiff belt of burbon into a paper cup, and seated herself comfortably on the sofa in the large living room and admired afresh the warm ambience of her surroundings.
“The best that all my money could buy.” Her voice brought her comfort.
She drained the cup and refilled it. When empty she crumpled it and placed it alongside the other items now concealed in the bag.
The wall clock reaffirmed that she had an hour remaining before company arrived. She nodded in satisfaction and rested.
With twenty minutes remaining she stood and checked on her captive one more time. “Not long now.”
A low groan came from the bed.
Carol gently stroked his cheek. “Are you terrified, my darling? Your eyes tell me you are. Good. That’s as it should be.”
Carol smiled in satisfaction and left the room, content to wait this out for a few minutes. At exactly 11.02 p.m she heard the front door open and close again. A musical female voice called out, “Peter? Darling, where are you?”
Carol listened carefully from her dark space in the hallway. She held her breath as the woman came into view and she watched her enter the master-bedroom in search of her lover.
“Waiting in bed for me, darling? That’s different. I thought we were going to share a late supper.”
The woman sounded disappointed.
“He can be very disappointing. I agree.” Carol said from the doorway.
The woman jumped in fright and managed to say “Oh, my God. I’m not, that is, we aren’t, this isn’t.” She shut her mouth when her frightened eyes took note that her lover’s wife was standing in front of her wearing latex gloves and aiming a gun at her head.
“It isn’t what? An affair? Oh, please. Do you expect me to believe that you’ve come here to my home every second Thursday at 11.00p.m for 3 months to do something innocent? Go ahead, enlighten me. I’m a reasonable woman. Convince me I don’t have a reason to hate you.”
“Please! I’m so sorry. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Oh, no, Thursday’s Girl. It means everything. The others meant nothing to him, therefore I ignored them. Ah, but you, you’re different. Turn around, let me take a closer look at you.”
Carol walked across to the shaking woman and prodded her with Peter’s handgun. “I said turn around.”
The younger woman nodded and hurriedly complied.
“He does love a tight ass. Long legs too. That’s always a bonus.”
“He doesn’t care about me. It’s a … a fling.”
“Nice try.”
“I’ll end it and never see him again. I promise. I’m sorry, please. Let me go.” The woman was sobbing now.
“Don’t you want to know how I know your special?”
The woman shook her head. “I’m not ….”
“Shut your stupid mouth and listen!” Carol barely controlled her anger and shoved the muzzle of the Glock into her rival’s chest.
She drew a deep calming breath and lowered the gun slightly. “I know,because he’s been happy. Happier than he’s been for many years. The only thing that’s different in his life since the advent of his peculiar behaviour is you!”
Carol fished inside the pocket of the coat she was wearing and drew out a small velvet box. “He brought you this little diamond trinket from Caliago. His jeweller of choice. It’s an engagement ring for you, Thursday’s Girl. The ring size is smaller than mine, and besides I only wear emeralds. My contact at the jewellers tells me it’s worth upwards of one million dollars. I do hope it’s insured. Give me your hand. Let’s try it on for size.”
The hand the woman held out was shaking. Carol nursed the gun, and held out the jewellery box. “Now place it on your finger. Don’t be stupid enough to flex your hand. Slide it on.”
The diamonds glistened as the ring slid into place perfectly.
“And lastly, should you think me presumptive, then don’t. You see our darling Peter visited our attorney to get the ball rolling for divorce proceedings. I can only wonder that he made such a stupid mistake. Our attorney was the one I recommended twenty-years ago. He earns every cent of the additional fees I pay him every month.”
Peter groaned again from the bed and his lover stood there watching on, too afraid to move.
Carol smiled. “How tragic love is. How very sad that you came here to end your relationship. Peter Cameron had never been denied anything in his life. He couldn’t take the rejection. He apparently decided that if he couldn’t have you, then nobody would.
The woman began to scream, and Carol laughed with pleasure. “Oh, yes, scream. Go right ahead! We do love living out here. There’s a righteous freedom in having no near neighbors.”
The woman was still sobbing as Carol sat next to Peter on the bed and shot her three times in the chest. She calmly watched as the body was flung backward by the impact and dropped to the floor.
Carol gazed down on her for long enough to see the faint hold on life vacate her eyes.
Carol checked the spandex gloves, satisfied that they’d worked as they should. She placed the weapon down for a moment as she removed the other things that she’d need from the bureau.
Peter’s arm felt like a dead weight as she wrapped the tourniquet around his upper bicep. The veins responded beautifully, and Carol inserted the syringe and watched in fascination as her husband’s body jerked several times. She watched him begin to foam at the mouth. She watched him die. “Heroin is so deadly, if you don’t get the dosage just right. I believe it’s referred to as a ‘hot shot’.
She placed the Glock in his right hand and checked to ensure the trajectory married up with the bullet’s impact on his dead companion. Carol squeezed his fingers closed around the weapon with his finger on the trigger, then let his arm drop and the gun lay loosely in the dead hand.
Carol stood back and admired her handiwork. Content now she hurried outside.
She ran to her car secreted behind a tall stand of trees and drove it into her driveway, behind the visitors Porche. She let the car idle and punched in 911 on her iPhone.
“911. What is the nature of your emergency?”
“Please! Help me. I need help! Please!” The voice was frantic.
“I’ll help you, Ma’am, but I need you to calm down. Please tell me what is happening.”
“I heard a woman screaming! Then I think there were gunshots! Now I can’t hear anything. Please! Please, I beg you, please hurry, I think my husband is inside. Should I go in? I have to help him!”
“Please give me your address.”
Carol gave it.
“Do NOT enter the dwelling. Police and Paramedics are on the way. Stay on the line with me. Are you close to the house?”
“I’m outside in the driveway.”
“Please move away from the property. Stay away from the windows. They’re on their way.”
***
CNN breaking news.
“In breaking news! The body of United States Senator Peter Cameron has been found at his home. A crime scene now exists. Early indications from our sources indicate that another body has been found at the scene. Murder/Suicide has not been ruled out.”
“Tragically it was the senator’s wife who made the grim discovery. She is reported to be resting under sedation. In deep shock as these events unfold. Police at this stage don’t believe that a third party was involved in the tragedy.”
Carol listened to the excited broadcaster and smiled.
Then she settled down in her pristine hospital bed and drifted off to a contented sleep.
#
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
Since yesterday was the anniversary of the storming of the Bastille in 1789 I thought it would be a good idea to lay out some things not to do should you have the ability to go there and join in the fun. As you know, the Bastille was a prison that the government of the time used to incarcerate and torture political prisoners. The day is called “Bastille Day.” in English (la Fête Nationale in French) and is widely recognized as the beginning of the French revolution. If you are going, take this list. Who knows it might just save your head.
Top Ten Things Not to Do while Storming the Bastille in 1789
10 If you are storming the Bastille, do not continue to carry your Vive Le Roy banner. If you do, at best someone will take it from you. At worst, you will be associated with royalty and may become a guest of the third estate at the next guillotine party. (why on Earth didn’t you know this was a demonstration against Louis XVI, Ike. Too many Vin rouges, eh?
9 If you are storming the Bastille, do not get in front of Tiny the WWF champ. If you do, at best, you’ll fall down, and Tiny will run over you. At worst, Tiny just left the rally where the beer was free and is anxious to grab the royal flag. (The sad thing is Tiny is focused on getting through the locked door and is now using you like a battering ram. It should be over in a few minutes, Iggy one way or another.)
8 If you are storming the Bastille, do not count on trading stories with the Marquis de Sade a prisoner there. If you do, at best you’ll accept that he left ten days before. At worst, you’ll try to organize a group to storm the insane asylum where he was transferred. (You have to admit not many want to help you, Ilias. Maybe that should give you a clue.)
7 If you are storming the Bastille, do not insist on a foie gras lunch. If you do, at best, you’ll be ignored. At worst, the average person has no idea what a foie gras is and will think you a royalist. (Now we are back to the original invitation to the head loss party after the storming is done, Inigo. I would think you could learn something in all this.)
6 If you are storming the Bastille, do not get caught with your “Go Camera recording the whole thing. If you do, at best you can tell them it’s a new kind of bomb, and they’ll believe you. At worst, your explanation will fall on deaf ears. (So now you are in line for the dunking chair which is designed to get the truth out of witches. Just tell them you are a witch, Isaak. Maybe they’ll go easy on you.)
5 If you are storming the Bastille, do not say to the mob that red, white, and blue are not your colors. If you do, at best you’ll get a sympathetic colorist. At worst, you be confessing to a bloodthirsty peasant your disdain for the tri-color, the symbol of the revolution. (Yes, his eyes are red, Isah. No, I don’t think he has allergies I believe he is mad at you. Yeah, running may not be the answer.)
4 If you are storming the Bastille, do not stop for a cafe au lait and croissant. If you do, at best you won’t be late for the storming. At worst, you’ll arrive after the storming is over and be accused of dereliction of duty. (I’ll bet you can guess what the punishment is for dereliction of duty, Iman. You got it. The big falling blade and close haircut.)
3 If you are storming the Bastille, do not try to yell Liberté, égalité, fraternité in French. If you do, at best the noise will be too loud, and no one will hear you. At worst, you will be heard, and your American accent will give you away. (You wonder why everyone is so angry, Iain? They want their revolution to themselves without interference from Americans. If you continue to try and help you will. only be dispised later)
2 If you are storming the Bastille, do not suggest that it would make a beautiful condo after the storming. If you do, at best folks will think you are shell shocked. At worst, Maximilien Robespierre will overhear your idea. (You may wonder why ole Max gave you a card with the number one printed on it, Idi. You have been honored to be the first to give up your head for the revolution. There’s the guillotine line right over there. You just march right to the front. It’s your right.)
1 If you are storming the Bastille, do not throw away that stale baguette. If you do, at best you will still have a sword. At worst, that baguette would have made an excellent weapon, and now you are defenseless. (Everyone knows that a day old baguette can be used to drive nails, Ignace. Think of what a beautiful club it would have made.)
Here we are at the Natural Gardener again. If you recall I did part one and then took a Fourth of July parade break. There are a lot of photos but few words. (Thank you, John) I hope you enjoy the stroll.
As a reminder, here is a map of the place – huge.
Natural rainwater station.
Tropical plant hut.
Tropical plant eater.
Herb garden
Babbling brook. (man made)
One kind of reptile habitat.
And a reptile more worrisome than snakes.
Plants to buy.
Lady bug hut.
Goat pen.
Chicken house.
Bird watering hole.
Yard sculpture.
Yellow submarine
Receiving department.
Guitar garden.
Handmade Gazebo.
Rock labyrinth
Interesting words about the labyrinth.
Budda.
Shed with a theme. (employees only)
I hope you enjoyed the walk around. A lot to see and sorry for so many photos.
Welcome to Stream of Consciousness Saturday. This weeks prompt is a little different. Here are Linda’s word describing the assignment “Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “instructions.” Write instructions for anything you know how to do. As detailed or as rambling as you’d like. Enjoy!”
There you have it. If you would like to have fun with words, go to Linda’s blog and read how. It is real easy. Hee is the link:
“Okay, now I got it. This wrench is a little difficult to work.”
“They all are. Just keep going.”
“There, finished. What’s next?”
“Repeat with part B and bolt B1.”
“Now I’m getting the hang of it. part C bolt C1.”
“Excellent. You’re on a roll.”
“Then you take part D and attach with bolt D1. First, you put your two knees close up tight you swing ’em to the left, and you swing ’em to the right. Step around the floor kinda nice and light. Twist around, twist around with all your might.”
“Okay, what’s that?”
“Instructions on Ballen’ the Jack. Spread your lovin’ arms way out in space. Do the eagle rock with a style and grace. Put your left foot out and bring it back. That’s what I call Ballin’ the Jack.”
“You finished with the chest?”
“Yup. Let’s stand ‘er up.”
“Goodness.”
“Hmmm. Looks like it is upside down.”
“You put the legs on wrong.”
“I don’t know, I think I like it this way.”
“Only you would.”
“I don’t think I can go through the process again.”
“How you going to fill the drawers?”
“Good point.”
“Tomorrow is another day. Can you help me with my IKEA bed?”
“Lucy. No sunbath. It’s Friday. Time for a ruckus.” “You start and I’ll join you later.”
Ah, delicious Friday. Eight more hours till Saturday eve. I hope your week was a good one.
If you looked in on yesterday’s post, you know we are getting some action on our yard. The way it goes is one day of furious activity and then one day of nothing. I’m sure you all have had the experience of doing business with busy contractors. They have several balls in the air, and so one has to go with the flow. We are supposed to get grass today, but I seriously doubt it since the concrete needs to be poured before the sod. Yeah, yesterday was supposed to be concrete. We shall see.
On my WIP I managed another 1000 per day week. So, now I’m over the 21,000-word mark. The characters are starting their “Let us take the wheel,” program which they always do at this time. The male protagonist wants to go to Wimbleton and find himself on the court facing Roger Federer. I’m not sure that’s going to happen, but it is a fun thought.
Today’s JohnKu talks about letting the characters run with the story. I hope you have a great weekend.
As a member of Rave Reviews Book Club, I am proud to showcase several exceptional writers. All are members of the literary section of the club titled Rave Writers – International Society of Authors. RWISA.
Today I want to welcome Beem Weeks with his story. Dying for a Kiss.
Beem Weeks
Dying for a Kiss
It’s like one of those stories you’d read about in Ripley’s Believe It or Not. I mean, who ever heard of anybody dying from a kiss?Seriously! But that’s what happened to me—well, except for the dying part. Two weeks in the hospital—that’s the souvenir I brought back from my spring break.
Okay, let me back up to the beginning.
My parents’ hushed words pierce the wall that separates their bedroom from mine. This particular conversation doesn’t warrant status as an argument, though. And believe me, I know what their arguments sound like—lots of yelling, and maybe an ashtray or a bowling trophy gets thrown by Mom. I guess I’d classify this one as just another log of disappointment tossed on the bonfire that engulfs our family—our collective lives.
Dad is a dreamer. The problem is, dreamers make promises they’ll eventually have to break. He’s also the sort of man who’ll spend his last five dollars on scratch-off lottery tickets instead of household necessities, like food, or gas—or our long-planned excursion to Disney World during spring break.
Dad’s the one who sets it in stone over breakfast in our kitchen—Dad, because Mom refuses to play the bad parent anymore.
“Sorry, kids,” he tells me and my sister, Amanda. “We just can’t afford Disney at this time.”
Amanda, being nearly two years older than me, carries a heavier burden of disappointment than I do. She’s had more time to gather her own collection of tales regarding broken promises, cancelled plans, and the jettisoned idea of ever being a normal, well-adjusted family.
“I figured as much,” Amanda mumbles, dismissing herself from the table.
Dad tries to be sincere in his attempt to save spring break. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t go somewhere that’s almost as fun and exciting.”
When Dad speaks of somewhere, it’s usually a state-park campground in some far-flung forest up north.
Amanda hollers from the living room, “Just so you know, Daddy, I hate camping.”
I don’t hate camping—though it doesn’t exactly make my top-ten list of fun things to do.
* * *
A little backstory.
My parents met at a Beatles concert back in 1964. Mom claims love at first sight.
Dad, well, he’s been known to dispute her recollections on the subject. He’s fond of saying, “She had the hots for John Lennon, is all. I’m just the booby prize.”
Hippies, they were—and still are, even though it’s 1979 now. They only just recently (as in one year ago) got married—despite the fact that Amanda is almost fourteen and I’m already twelve. And though they’d both been college students when they met, neither has ever collected the degree they once intended to earn.
Mom works at the IGA as a cashier—minimum wage, with practically zero opportunity to advance into a higher tax bracket.
Dad? He’s dabbled in various occupations—sales, electronic repairs (TV’s mostly, maybe a few stereos), welding, landscaping, auto repair. Nothing ever really sticks for him, though. My grandfather (Mom’s dad) refers to my father as professionally unemployable. Granddad still blames him for making a mess of Mom’s life. They don’t speak, Dad and Grandpa.
Dad’s a good guy, though. He means well. He’s just not one for responsibilities.
So, anyway, the folded map of Michigan comes out, spread across the kitchen table. Mom eyes the places circled in red—those previous vacation spots. We’ve been all over the state: Silver Lake Sand Dunes, Traverse City during the cherry festival, Holland for Tulip Time. We even spent a few days on Mackinac Island three summers ago—though we didn’t stay at the Grand Hotel.
“It’s Andrew’s turn to choose,” Mom says, dropping the big decision in my hands.
Hiawatha National Forest had been my first choice the last time my turn came up. But Dad broke his foot, which cancelled our vacation that spring.
“The Upper Peninsula, it is,” Dad says.
Amanda despises me in this moment. “I told you I hate camping.”
* * *
Radio songs fill the van once we hit US 27 going north. The Bee Gees squawk about a tragedy twice before we’re even on the road for forty minutes.
“I hate that song,” Amanda complains.
Dad says, “Well, I like it.”
Mom tries to lighten the mood. “I spy with my little eye—”
“Please don’t!” Amanda begs. Without warning, she socks my shoulder, yells, “Slug bug red!”
“Ouch!” And just like that, it’s on. We’ll both of us be battered and bruised by the time we spy the top of the Mackinac Bridge.
“Slug bug green!” Thwack!
“Slug bug blue!” Thwack!
“Slug bug—oh, never mind. That’s not a VW.” Thwack!
“Hey! No fair!”
Blondie sings about her heart of glass and Amanda momentarily abandons our game—just long enough to sing the few lines she actually knows.
Many hours later, I’m the one who spots the top of the Mighty Mack! “I see the bridge,” I say, hoping it’ll irritate Amanda.
But in truth, she doesn’t mind losing this game. It’s not a thing to her anymore. She’ll leave us the day she turns eighteen—or even sooner, if she has her way. Grandpa promised to pay for her college, knowing my parents will never be able to afford it.
Evening spikes the sky with an orange-pink sunset by the time we find a campground inside Hiawatha. Dozens of tents and RV’s occupy the prime camping spots.
“Andrew and I will set up the tent,” Dad says, parking our van on the last vacant lot within sight. “You girls can get dinner ready.”
Kids—loud and rowdy, as Grandpa would say—run from lot to lot, chasing after somebody’s collie, darting across the road without so much as a glance in either direction.
“Too stupid to last long in this world,” Amanda says.
Mom gives her the eye. “They’re just kids, for crying out loud, Mandy.”
* * *
“Andy and Mandy,” the girl teases, laughing at our introductions. “That’s cute. Are you two twins or something?”
“Or something,” Amanda says.
Her name is Nora, this girl with short brown hair. Already fourteen—unlike Amanda, who still has another month. The tents across the street are her family’s—it’s their collie running wild.
“Five kids,” Nora says, answering my mother. “I’m the oldest. Three younger brothers and a baby sister.”
“Sounds kind of crowded, that many people in just two small tents,” I observe.
She looks right at me when I speak—like I’m really truly here, standing in front of her.
“You don’t know the half of it,” says Nora. “I asked if I could just stay home, sit out this vacation. That’s not happening anytime soon.”
* * *
Blue jean shorts and a red bikini top—that’s what Nora wears the following morning. And a pocket full of salt water taffy—which she gladly shares.
Mom’s not impressed. “Leaves little to the imagination,” she says, regarding Nora’s top.
“But you and Daddy used to skinny dip,” Amanda reminds her. “So how is that better?”
Mom’s hard gaze issues silent threats. Her words aren’t quite as harsh. “Aren’t you kids going boating?”
It’s not really a boat, this thing we rent; it’s more like a canoe—but only plastic. I sit in the rear, my paddle steering us toward the middle of the lake. Amanda has the other paddle, though she’s not really doing anything with it.
Nora sits in the middle—facing me!
I think Amanda is intimidated, not being the oldest for a change.
Nora talks—a lot. But I don’t mind. She tells us all about life back home in Detroit—well, the suburbs, really, a place called Royal Oak. She used to have a boyfriend, but he cheated on her. Her parents separated last year, intending to divorce, but her mom ended up pregnant.
“Amazing how an unborn baby can save a marriage,” Amanda says.
It’s after we bring the canoe in that Nora says, “Wanna go for a walk?”
Only, she’s not talking to Amanda. Amanda is already halfway back to our tent.
We end up in a picnic area near the lake, just me and Nora. She tells me more about herself, her family, what she intends for her future.
“You’re cute,” she says, sitting right beside me on a park bench.
My cheeks get hot, probably bright pink.
And she’s two years older than me, I think, as her lips press against mine.
My first kiss—well, first real kiss.
On her tongue I taste salt water taffy and excitement and all things possible.
What I don’t taste is the meningitis in her saliva.
Amanda intrudes, tells me lunch is being served at our tent.
* * *
It strikes without warning, leaving me confused, nauseated. Words tumble from my mouth, though I have no idea what I’m saying.
Mom’s hand finds my forehead. “He’s burning up,” she says. “We need to get this boy to a hospital.”
Only, I don’t hear it that way. What I hear is, “We need to get this boy a pretzel.”
“But I don’t like pretzels,” I mumble.
* * *
Two weeks later, I’m back home. It’s a blur, but my parents say I nearly died.
From a kiss!
Is that a Ripley’s story or what?
And what a kiss—totally worth dying for!
Well,almost dying.
∼∼∼
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.
We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again, for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
As a member of Rave Reviews Book Club, I am proud to showcase several exceptional writers. All are members of the literary section of the club titled Rave Writers – International Society of Authors. RWISA.
Today I want to welcome Jan Sikes with her story. She Dances with a Memory.
SHE DANCES WITH A MEMORY
JAN SIKES
Gertrude McNabb placed a gnarled hand on her arthritic back as she bent over to take a chocolate cake from the oven. She inhaled the sweet aroma and put it on a rack to cool.
A black-and-white photograph of a dark-haired man with twinkling eyes sat nearby on the cabinet. “This is for you, Hiram. I didn’t forget it was your birthday. It’s your favorite. I’ll always remember how your face would light up when I baked this special recipe for you.”
Gertrude picked up the framed snapshot, held it against her heart, and shuffled into the living room.
“We might as well make use of the time while I wait for your cake to cool. Then I’ll frost it with your favorite French vanilla icing. The kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids are all going to be here in a couple of hours, and it will be nothing but pure chaos,” she said.
The mahogany stereo cabinet from the 1960s occupied the same spot in the living room that it had since the day Hiram McNabb brought it home as a Christmas surprise. They’d spent many happy days and nights listening to record albums. Hiram never tried to hide the fact that he adored Rosemary Clooney. But, not Gertrude. For her, it was ol’ Blue Eyes himself that got her blood going.
Oh, the wonderful and countless hours they’d waltzed away across the living room floor to the beautiful music that wafted out of those state-of-the-art stereo speakers.
She adjusted her glasses and thumbed through a stack of record albums. It seemed to take forever nowadays to do even the simplest task. She pulled out a favorite and held it up in front of the photo she’d perched on the coffee table. “Since it’s your birthday, my dear, and such a special occasion, how about Nat King Cole?”
Her fingers, once nimble and efficient, struggled to remove the round disc from its package.
“Remember how this one caught my eye in the record store, but we didn’t buy it?” She chuckled. “And then you brought it home the very next day.” She blew out a sigh.
Once she had the disk secured on the turntable, she took the pins from her silver hair, and it tumbled down her back.
She clicked on the stereo and waited until the tiny red light turned green, then gently placed the needle onto the black groove.
Then with a great flourish, she picked up the photo and held her arms out for her imaginary dance partner.
Even though she hardly moved from the spot where she stood, with her eyes closed, she was transported back in time, back to days of youth when it had been impossible to imagine ever growing old.
“It was fascination, I know, seeing you alone with the moonlight above,” Nat King Cole sang.
A smile graced her lips.
She whispered, “Hiram Edward McNabb, you swept me off my feet the first time I saw you. You were so handsome in your Army uniform. I’ll never forget that night at the county fair. My older brother and sister took me, and since they wanted to stick around for the dance, I got to stay with them.”
She paused and steadied herself.
“You asked me to dance and didn’t let me sit down one time the whole night.” She giggled. “From then on, I knew we were meant to be together. I’d always hated my name, and you agreed that Gertrude sounded like an old lady, so you called me by my middle name. I was your Rose.”
Memories swirled around in her mind. Sweet remembrances of laughter, of falling in love and of daring to live the fullest life imaginable flew by the way scenes from a movie might do.
No, they hadn’t been wealthy, but Hiram made a decent living for them, and they always had what they needed. However, it was his steadfast love for her, for life, and the music they embraced that kept her excited and happy for over sixty years.
As impossible as it seemed, he’d now been gone over two years. Never a day passed that she didn’t carry on a conversation with him. It started with a good morning greeting and ended with a good night declaration of love.
Sometimes, she could swear that he answered her.
The needle reached the end of the record. She set the photo back down and focused her attention on choosing another album.
“Rosie.”
She turned around. “Hiram?”
No one was there. Then she heard it again. Was she going daft?
“Well, I’ve certainly let my imagination get the best of me. I guess that’s what happens to old ladies when they’re alone too long.”
As she reached for her favorite Frank Sinatra album, a hand brushed against hers.
Now she was sure she was losing what little bit of sensibility she had left.
When she was a child, her relatives shared stories about spirit visits from beyond the veil. To her, it was nothing more than hogwash and products of overactive imaginations. After all, what did old folks know?
As hard as it was to admit, she might have been wrong about that, and a little hasty to judge. Perhaps Hiram had shown up to celebrate his birthday.
Whatever it was, she would enjoy it and soak up every moment, even if it wasn’t real. She could make it true in her mind.
With Frank Sinatra crooning a love song, she reached again for the photo but instead, chose to leave it sitting and simply held out her wrinkled and trembling arms.
Her feet moved, and she twirled just like she’d done thousands of times before. She threw back her head and laughed. She was twenty again, as Hiram swept her across the big wooden dance floor inside the SPJST Hall.
Song after song played, and still, they danced, they laughed, and they kissed.
Then the record reached an end and she was met with deafening silence. She opened her eyes, surprised to find that she stood in the same spot where she’d been. She truly had been waltzing and twirling with Hiram.
“I’m tired now, my love.” She moved toward her easy chair. “I just need to rest awhile.”
Perhaps one day before long, she’d be waltzing again with her sweetheart for the remainder of eternity. But for now, she had the memories, and she’d continue to dance with them until that day came.
She reached for the photo and pressed it to her heart.
Her eyes drifted shut, and she smiled.
∼∼∼
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“Nope. I thought I heard Friday, but it’s only Wednesday.”
It is Wednesday Story Day, and last week we were witness to an accommodating Head of the South Tahoe police department. He gave Larry and Andrew some assurance that he would be willing to help. He also gave an opinion that the ADA might be under some pressure by the same people who tried to eliminate Larry and Andrew to bring a case against the two. I see Larry and Andrew have left the Captain, and it looks like they are going to Heavenly Ski Resort. I think we better go with them to see what they are doing.
“I guess ‘lay low’ is not on the agenda, huh, Larry?”
“No. I want to talk to the folks who picked Rafferty off the slope.”
“You think they will be here in the summer?”
“If not, at least we can get their report. Surely the head of security has it.”
“Wow, this place is big.”
“Yes, it is. Park over there by the California Bar, and we can walk from here. I see a building that looks like it might be the office.”
“Humm. Looks like parking is one hour only.”
“No sweat. We shouldn’t be more than twenty-five minutes. Come on.”
“Hold on. I have to feed the meter. Do you have any quarters?”
“Yeah, here’s a couple. I wonder what the payout percentage on a meter is in this town.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Stupid joke.”
“Oh, with all the slot machines around. I get it.”
“Not in time. Here we are. After you, my good man.”
“Look, Larry. You hit the nail on the head. The security office is to the left.”
“Again, After you.”
“What happened to ‘My good man?’”
“Double pronouns. Here’s the door. Follow me.”
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. How can I help you.”
“Good afternoon. My name is Larry Dunfee. That’s detective Dunfee of the Boston police department. This is my associate Andrew Cummings.”
“What can I do for you two.”
“We would like to see the report from the ski patrol the night Rafferty was killed.”
“Rafferty? I’m not familiar with that name. Was he a member of the ski patrol?”
“Do you have a boss?”
“Yes. I have a manager.”
“Could you get the manager?”
“One minute. I’ll be right back.”
“I would sweeten up, Larry. You can bogart people back in Boston but here is different.”
“Thanks, Andrew. I’ll work on it.”
“Yes, gentlemen. Lance tells me you have a question.”
“Yes, sir, we do. There was a fatality on the slopes last season, and we would like to look at the ski patrol write up.”
“Do you know the ski patrol member’s name?”
“No, but the victim was a guy named Alexis Rafferty.”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t file reports by victim’s names. Just by ski patrol member.”
“Do you remember the name?”
“Cant’s say that I do.”
“Can’t or won’t.”
“Excuse me…Sir. There is no reason to get on a high horse. If I remembered the name, I would have told you. Now, as far as I know, Boston is a long way from here. I would suggest that if you want information from our system, you march to the courthouse and get a warrant. Our conversation is over.”
“Hey, don’t walk away from me.”
“Too late Larry. You pissed him off, and he’s gone.”
“Why are people so thin-skinned anyway?”
“So thin that they can’t ward off a broadside blast from you? I’m sure I don’t know.”
