Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company! discussion
Weekly Short Story Contests
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Week 231 (September 27-October 4). Stories. Topic: Clockwork
I welcome all comments and suggestions to improve. Not sure about the back & forth between past and present -- is it confusing?Title: Wedding Dreams
Genre: Fiction with a touch of dry humor
Word Count: 880
Penelope knelt on the floor of her bedroom and brushed back a loose strand of short salt-and-pepper hair. She struggled to hold back the tears of joy and sadness. She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders to help her get a grip on herself. It was time to empty out her hope chest in readiness for its new owner.
Goodness! Look at all this. Who put that in here? she thought as she opened the lid.
What had started out as storage for her wedding dress had become a repository for all sorts of sundry items, each one representing someone’s hopes and dreams: a teddy bear, beach pail, toy truck, plastic farm animals, graduation announcements, party invitations, a box of unopened hair rollers...
She carefully took each treasure out and set it on the floor. The wrinkled picture at the bottom of the chest evoked a watery laugh. Her wedding picture. She and Doug--how young they looked! It had been years since she’d looked at any wedding pictures or even thought about that day; there had never been time. Now she sat back and leaned against the bed, picture in hand, and wryly recalled the person she had been that day and the thoughts that had obsessed her at that time…
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Finally! Her wedding day was here. All that planning, all that work had paid off.
Although she still wasn’t sure if all six of her bridesmaids would follow through or not. One had a problem with the dress, another with the shoes. A third was still nursing her 1 year old and was worried about leaking.
Thank goodness she only had to do this once. Soon she could get on with her life and the way things were supposed to be.
Her husband–to-be was on time for once. She had called the best man and her future mother-in-law twice that morning to make sure. She’d need an extra alarm clock after they were married.
But the wedding was beautiful, there was nothing to complain about there. It all went off like clockwork. Well, that was because she oversaw everything, made sure the flowers were exactly right, no longer buds, but not in full bloom yet either and all the same perfect shade of pale pink.
The garland draping the pews was arranged just so, she had four boys help with that. Even so, they needed constant supervision.
Of course, the church organist had to be replaced. That woman was half blind, couldn’t hardly read the music. Never mind that it was music for a guitar, she should have known how to work that out. Well, it was better to have the chamber trio, anyway. It cost the earth, but was worth every penny. It sounded so professional. She knew everyone was impressed. And it was important to impress all the right people, especially her new husband’s new boss, the mayor. Well, he WOULD be her husband’s new boss, soon enough.
Had she really thought all these things that day? She shook her head at herself in amusement.
The caterer had needed attention, too. She had to lobby for extra servers and bar help. The portions could have been a bit bigger,too. Should she have gone with family style, after all? But who really wanted another wedding that served chicken, mashed potatoes and slimy green beans?
What a silly goose she’d been.
------------------------------------------------
Now she couldn’t even remember what they ate that day.
She couldn’t remember who she’d danced with either. Except… she did remember every dance with her husband. There was something safe and warm and steady about him. How did he come to love her so much? He must have seen something in her that she didn’t know existed. She was lucky, very lucky in love.
Sometimes she felt she didn’t deserve him. He was still safe and warm and steady. Dependable. She’d needed that. She looked over at the two alarm clocks on the dresser next to the bed. Well, other than that, he was a rock.
“Mom, where’s my baseball glove?” The shout distracted her from the picture she was holding and the reverie playing in her head.
She smiled as she recalled her impressions of that day. Some of it was nerves, no doubt, but most of it was just …her. All those things that were so important to her once upon a time...
Twenty-five years and ten kids later had certainly caused her priorities to take a radical shift. Well, at least some of them.
Penelope turned as her oldest daughter entered the room. “Do you plan to take your baseball glove with on your honeymoon?” she asked with a smirk on her face. Her daughter’s wedding would go off without a hitch of course.
“You never know, it’s always brought me good luck. I met Kevin wearing that glove,” she answered, her face glowing with dreamy love. It was the same dreamy love-look Penelope still often wore for her husband.
Penelope shook herself, “Well, until we find it, let’s make room in this chest for your wedding gown and all the other memorabilia you want to take to your new home.”
As her daughter came to stand next to her, she gazed at her with pride and thought, Yes, very, very lucky in love.
Hey Anne, just came in to vote and saw your story up. Dang girl, you're fast. Just finished your story and enjoyed it. I think the main thing, for me, is that it's easy to read, I don't have to work at it. And, as usual you got an emotional response, a fullness behind the eyes, a lump in the throat. This is the third time you have done that to me from reading your work, you got the gift. Old age makes one sentimental, as you so clearly show in your work.
Mark wrote: "Hey Anne, just came in to vote and saw your story up. Dang girl, you're fast. Just finished your story and enjoyed it. I think the main thing, for me, is that it's easy to read, I don't have to wor..."Mark, thanks so much! Your words certainly put a lump in my throat! Glad you enjoyed it. I was afraid if I didn't do it right away I wouldn't get to anything this week.
Very nice, Anne! I haven't even thought of what I am going to write yet! I don't think the back and forth from past to present was too much at all ... it enhanced the story! I bought myself a hope chest with the earnings from my first high school job and I still have it. It's full of old photo albums now. I will never have a daughter to pass it down to .. but now I have three granddaughters. Maybe my oldest one will want it one day.
I'll get to reading Anne's entry in just a few minutes. In the meantime, here's the synopsis to my entry and it's called "Twice the Cuteness". You may have seen it in the Story Ideas thread, but in case you haven't, here it is:CHARACTERS:
Nacho, Two-Faced Kitten
Ronan Dempsey, Potential Adopter
Diana Todd, Animal Shelter Clerk
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Nacho’s life is like clockwork since he doesn’t have long to live.
SYNOPSIS: At the Sweetie Society Animal Shelter, Diana gives special attention to Nacho since he’s frequently passed up for adoption due to his “ugly” two faces. She knows two-faced cats don’t have long to live, so when Ronan browses the shelter for a pet, Diana goes all out in attempting to shill Nacho to him.
Anne, "Wedding Dreams" is a sweet and lovable story. It was a complete 180 from last week’s theme where darkness reigned in almost everyone‘s stories. On the contrary, this was very lighthearted and beautiful. I never even thought about the concept of a “Hope Chest” until I read your story. I have a memory box, but that’s about it. Anyways, great effort this week and I know your hard work will continue for weeks to come.
AUTHOR: Garrison KellyTITLE: Twice the Cuteness
GENRE: Modern Drama
WORD COUNT: 1,629
RATING: PG for one swear word and animal cruelty references
Business was slow at the Sweetie Society Animal Shelter with almost everyone except Diana Todd calling in sick. Diana worked as the shelter’s manager for 30 years and showed her age with her protruding belly, shiny silver hair, and thin rimmed glasses. While the underlings who did show up were busy tending to the customers and cleaning the cages, Diana sat in a chair in the far corner of the animal room and cradled a little kitty in her motherly arms.
Except this wasn’t any ordinary kitty. He was a little yellow fuzz bucket named Nacho and what set him apart from the rest of the animals was the fact he had two separate faces. It was because of this flaw he was passed up for adoption many times by customers who thought he was “too ugly”. Diana did everything she could to give Nacho a loving home, mostly because she knew two-faced cats generally didn’t live very long. She didn’t know when Nacho’s time was going to come, so she tried to make every second of his life count.
The uneventful day dragged on until it was late at night and Diana Todd was all alone with her Nacho-Pie, who was so happy in his mother’s arms that he purred and meowed a high-pitched meow out of both mouths. Diana wasn’t content to spend the rest of the night snuggling with her little baby until the final customer came through the glass door.
The man’s name was Ronan Dempsey and he looked like a million bucks with his slicked back brown hair, chiseled facial features, and handsome black trench coat style. If Diana was 30 years younger, maybe, just maybe. But since there was business to attend to, she walked up to the lone gentleman and greeted him with Nacho still in her arms.
“Good evening, sir. Are you looking to adopt a pet today? I’ve got a little cutie in my arms right now named Nacho. Would you like to hold him?” said Diana.
Upon setting his eyes on the little golden sweetie, Ronan didn’t know whether to be disgusted or sympathetic toward Nacho. His facial expression looked as conflicted as he was. “I don’t know. Isn’t there something about two-faced cats not living too long? I don’t want to get my heart broken that easily.”
“I understand it’s difficult to care for a little guy like Nacho here. But with the right instructions, he can live well into his adult years,” said Diana.
“Am I going to need to get him surgery?” said Ronan, looking as if he was digging for an excuse not to adopt Nacho and not look like a jerk in the process.
Diana saw right through his rouse. “Listen, sir. I know you’re not used to having two-faced animals around the house or any kind of animal with a disability for that matter. But that doesn’t make Nacho here any less needed. Imagine if you had a child in school and he was being picked on for something he couldn’t help. That’s the situation our little Nacho here faces every day. The other cats and dogs want to rip him to shreds and everyone else seems to think he’s too ugly for their home. It’s shallow. It really is.”
A deep sigh escaped the mouth of Ronan Dempsey as he said, “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come off like that. It’s just that…I adopted a dog not too long ago and he was at least 12 years old. Within a year, he already passed away and I had to bury him. I loved that dog. Burying him was so hard to do.” A small tear formed in Ronan’s eye and he wiped it away with his finger.
“If you don’t want to go through that again, I’m okay with it. I had a dog of my own that I had to bury. I don’t want the same thing to happen to Nacho here, which is why I was so insistent that somebody take him home and love him. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to put that burden on anybody else. It’s just that Nacho is very lonely here and that can be more harmful to an animal than any kind of disability.”
Another sigh came out of Ronan as he said, “You know what? You’re absolutely right. This poor little guy needs a home. He can stay upstairs with me and snuggle in my bed. I’ll even let him sleep on the pillow next to me. Can you hold him up to my ear for a second?”
Diana did what she was told and Nacho purred like a lion in Ronan’s ear, which brought a smile to the would-be kitty father’s face. “I’ll tell you what, sir. You can hold him in your arms and let him purr in your ear some more while I go get the paperwork and do a quick background check on my computer. Your name is…?”
After Ronan told her his name, Diana took a seat at the nearby computer and typed his name in the Been Verified dot com search engine. It turns out this handsome young stud had a clean record to go with his charming style. No violent offenses, no juvenile history, not even a speeding ticket. Diana cross checked Ronan Dempsey’s name with other databases via Google and he still came up clean.
By the time Diana returned to where Ronan was standing, he had baby Nacho in his loving arms and was even singing to the little two-faced cutie. “Lullaby and goodnight. Go to sleep now and rest tight…” The lyrics to Braham’s Lullaby along with Ronan’s golden voice were enough to put Nacho into a deep sleep.
A small tear flowed from Diana’s eye. She had finally done it. She found a home for baby Nacho. All that was left was a boring interview and even more boring paperwork and it was all over. Nothing to it, really. It would be a long process, but Diana had done it many times over her 30 year career and it was easy breezy lemon squeezy.
The next day at work, everything seemed to be happy and bouncy once again. More employees were coming in, more pets were being adopted, and Diana’s smile would have to be surgically removed from her face. Everything was busy and going according to plan. Diana didn’t want to stop now, but was her lunch break and she was getting rather hungry.
She sat at the lunch room table eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an apple while watching the afternoon news. No brutal news story was going to remove Diana Todd’s smile, at least until she saw a mug shot of Ronan Dempsey on TV. He looked completely different from when he came into the shelter. His head was shaved, his face was meaner, and he had dried up scars all over his cheeks. Diana took deep breaths as she turned up the volume with the remote.
“In Paulson City today, a dog fighting ring was raided by the SWAT team and over 30 arrests were made. The leader of the ring is pictured here. He used the alias Ronan Dempsey, but his real name is in fact Bill Blythe, whose name is synonymous with the FBI’s most wanted for international dog fighting. By the time the SWAT team had broken up a match that was taking place, several pit bulls were found dead and a two-faced yellow kitten was found bloodied in one of the dog’s mouths. Federal agents say Mr. Blythe could face 20 years to life for all of his misdeeds across the world, not just here in Paulson City. We’ll have more information as it’s made available to us.”
Diana’s world went black as soon as Nacho’s description was mentioned by the news anchor. She dropped her food on the floor and buried her face in her arms on the lunch table. She started off with soft sobbing, but then it evolved into a raging stream of tears as she pounded the table in between screams. One of the workers at the shelter tried to put her arms around Diana to tell her it’s okay and Diana yelled, “Don’t touch me!” and scared her off.
It didn’t matter how many times her coworkers told her everything would be okay. It didn’t matter what kind of excuses they came up with for her. It didn’t matter how many times they said nobody would have suspected Ronan Dempsey to be a monster like Bill Blythe. All Diana Todd wanted to do was cry her eyes out. She worked so hard to give Nacho a home despite all the cruelty the little guy went through. Instead, he was bait for a fighting dog and a reason for Ronan Dempsey/Bill Blythe to make a little extra money to feed his greed.
By the time Diana Todd lifted her head, she saw the entire animal shelter staff surrounding her with equally sad looks on their faces. She wiped her eyes and stood up in order to address them. “In 30 long years, I’ve never made a mistake like this. I’ve always done background checks. I’ve never had a problem with sociopaths coming in here to take our babies away. The one time Nacho needed me to be there for him, I let him down. I let him down hard. I don’t want you all to make excuses for me. I know that bastard Bill Blythe was using an alias and cleaned his record. He’s a criminal, he has to do that. But it doesn’t hurt any less. Which is why I’m telling you all that I’m resigning from my position as of now.”
I think I've got a story... it's weird how at its earliest it was going to go a certain simple way but now has a different setting, a different character, and has the same theme.Strange how stuff works like that.
I say it all the time, but it bears repeating: happy writing, CJ!
Thanks, Garrison! :)
Garrison, Very good story! I hate that little Nacho (love that name by the way!) met his demise but you wrote this in a very compassionate way and I know many animal lovers, me included, will really like the way Diana felt such emotion. You know, I would rather befriend a two-faced cat than many two-faced PEOPLE!
Here is my short story submission for the topic: Clockwork. Feedback is ALWAYS welcome!
Word Count: 922
Oblivion by Melissa Andres
Clinton Watts worked the early morning shift at the 24 Hour, a small convenience store and gas station in a shabby part of town.
He had plans and dreams. Although his paycheck was nothing to brag about, Clinton was saving his funds to attend junior college. He wanted his own place; a nice place. He wanted to go into social work. He wanted to help those less fortunate than himself become something someday; just like he was going to do.
Glancing at the clock on the wall with the cracked plastic casing, Clinton noticed is was almost 6:15. She would be here soon. He poured a Styrofoam cup of black coffee, retrieved two packets of sugar from the container that sat next to the stained percolating pot and plucked a large cinnamon bun from the rack of cheap breakfast foods standing at attention in the corner. With tax, the total came to $2.29; every morning, just like clockwork. He tried to get her in and out of the shop as quickly as possible, hence the prior preparation.
Hearing the small bell above the glass door clang, he braced himself. He smelled her before he saw her. The mixture of body odor and whiskey always made his nose run and his sleepy green eyes sting.
Looking down into his palms, he stood stiffly as two crumpled dollar bills and a handful of change tumbled from her fingerless cotton gloves and onto the chipped blue counter.
Clinton watched warily as the woman pushed the patched, faded burgundy toboggan back on her wiry gray head. She ripped open the cinnamon bun and shoved it into the side of her mouth. Her tongue darted in and out of the gap where her front teeth had once been. The young clerk's face scrunched in disgust; just like clockwork. He would have to clean the icing remnants from the counter and floor -- again.
She slurped the coffee and placed the cup, a brown liquid trail slowly inching its way downward, onto the counter gently.
They never exchanged words. They never made eye contact.
Pulling her tattered plaid coat around her slight frame, she shuffled out the door; the bell sounding its familiar clang. Clinton breathed a sigh of relief.
After disinfecting the counter and sweeping the floor, Clinton pulled up a stool and opened the local junior college catalog, marking which classes he would one day take.
Customers were sporadic over the next hour. The young man welcomed the incoming employee and the end of his day.
Settling into his old, dingy, rattle-trap of a vehicle, Clinton switched on the radio. His routine classic country station was soon interrupted by a news anchor announcing a tragic fatality. Rolling his eyes, he cringed.
"Man, that was my favorite song, too!" Clinton said to the bug-splattered windshield. "Ain't nobody got time for this."
The anchor was saying that a pedestrian, a woman, was attempting to cross a busy street when she was struck and hit by a car. Clinton flicked the radio dial with his thumb, the news quickly escaping his mind as it was replaced with a cheery Christmas tune.
The next morning, just like clockwork, Clinton Watts adjusted his plastic name tag and waited until it was almost 6:15. Then, just like clockwork, he poured a Styrofoam cup of black coffee, retrieved two packets of sugar from the container that sat next to the stained, percolating pot and plucked a large cinnamon bun from the rack of cheap breakfast foods standing at attention in the corner.
Bending his disheveled blond head back down into his junior college catalog, Clinton the store clerk scribbled barely legible notes.
Aspirations:
House
Car
Clothes
School
Social Worker
Care
Love
Hearing the bell above the glass door clang, Clinton absentmindedly pushed the cinnamon bun and coffee closer toward the edge of the counter.
"Whatcha writin' there, son?" a low, masculine voice asked.
Clinton looked up to find a tall, dark-headed police officer staring down at him.
"Umm, just some future plans, sir," he stammered. "I'm gonna get out of this town one day and then help others do the same. I'm a real people-person."
"Good for you, son," the officer grinned. "Good for you."
"Thank you, sir. What can I do for you?" Clinton asked as he looked at the clock. Odd, she was late.
"I was wondering what you could tell me about Veronica Lucca." The policeman removed a small spiral notebook from his jacket pocket.
"I'm sorry, who?" Clinton asked.
"Veronica Lucca, forty-one, gray hair, brown eyes," the man read a generic description. "She had several receipts from this store in her plaid coat pocket, all time-stamped within a minute or two every single day for," he looked at his notes again, "four months."
"Was that her name? Veronica Lucca?"
The officer stared blankly.
"Was the woman that got killed yesterday, according to the radio, a homeless lady, no teeth, ratty old coat, stunk to high Heaven?"
"Well, yes, that sounds like her."
"She'd actually been coming in here for about two years, officer." Clinton shrugged. "Don't know a thing about her."
"Nothing?" the officer shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "And you say you're a people-person?"
"Oh yes!" Clinton beamed. "I can't wait to go to school and help people."
As the glass door closed behind him and he heard the bell clang, the officer shook his head sadly.
"Ya don't need an education to help out. Some people just need to open their eyes."
Word Count: 922
Oblivion by Melissa Andres
Clinton Watts worked the early morning shift at the 24 Hour, a small convenience store and gas station in a shabby part of town.
He had plans and dreams. Although his paycheck was nothing to brag about, Clinton was saving his funds to attend junior college. He wanted his own place; a nice place. He wanted to go into social work. He wanted to help those less fortunate than himself become something someday; just like he was going to do.
Glancing at the clock on the wall with the cracked plastic casing, Clinton noticed is was almost 6:15. She would be here soon. He poured a Styrofoam cup of black coffee, retrieved two packets of sugar from the container that sat next to the stained percolating pot and plucked a large cinnamon bun from the rack of cheap breakfast foods standing at attention in the corner. With tax, the total came to $2.29; every morning, just like clockwork. He tried to get her in and out of the shop as quickly as possible, hence the prior preparation.
Hearing the small bell above the glass door clang, he braced himself. He smelled her before he saw her. The mixture of body odor and whiskey always made his nose run and his sleepy green eyes sting.
Looking down into his palms, he stood stiffly as two crumpled dollar bills and a handful of change tumbled from her fingerless cotton gloves and onto the chipped blue counter.
Clinton watched warily as the woman pushed the patched, faded burgundy toboggan back on her wiry gray head. She ripped open the cinnamon bun and shoved it into the side of her mouth. Her tongue darted in and out of the gap where her front teeth had once been. The young clerk's face scrunched in disgust; just like clockwork. He would have to clean the icing remnants from the counter and floor -- again.
She slurped the coffee and placed the cup, a brown liquid trail slowly inching its way downward, onto the counter gently.
They never exchanged words. They never made eye contact.
Pulling her tattered plaid coat around her slight frame, she shuffled out the door; the bell sounding its familiar clang. Clinton breathed a sigh of relief.
After disinfecting the counter and sweeping the floor, Clinton pulled up a stool and opened the local junior college catalog, marking which classes he would one day take.
Customers were sporadic over the next hour. The young man welcomed the incoming employee and the end of his day.
Settling into his old, dingy, rattle-trap of a vehicle, Clinton switched on the radio. His routine classic country station was soon interrupted by a news anchor announcing a tragic fatality. Rolling his eyes, he cringed.
"Man, that was my favorite song, too!" Clinton said to the bug-splattered windshield. "Ain't nobody got time for this."
The anchor was saying that a pedestrian, a woman, was attempting to cross a busy street when she was struck and hit by a car. Clinton flicked the radio dial with his thumb, the news quickly escaping his mind as it was replaced with a cheery Christmas tune.
The next morning, just like clockwork, Clinton Watts adjusted his plastic name tag and waited until it was almost 6:15. Then, just like clockwork, he poured a Styrofoam cup of black coffee, retrieved two packets of sugar from the container that sat next to the stained, percolating pot and plucked a large cinnamon bun from the rack of cheap breakfast foods standing at attention in the corner.
Bending his disheveled blond head back down into his junior college catalog, Clinton the store clerk scribbled barely legible notes.
Aspirations:
House
Car
Clothes
School
Social Worker
Care
Love
Hearing the bell above the glass door clang, Clinton absentmindedly pushed the cinnamon bun and coffee closer toward the edge of the counter.
"Whatcha writin' there, son?" a low, masculine voice asked.
Clinton looked up to find a tall, dark-headed police officer staring down at him.
"Umm, just some future plans, sir," he stammered. "I'm gonna get out of this town one day and then help others do the same. I'm a real people-person."
"Good for you, son," the officer grinned. "Good for you."
"Thank you, sir. What can I do for you?" Clinton asked as he looked at the clock. Odd, she was late.
"I was wondering what you could tell me about Veronica Lucca." The policeman removed a small spiral notebook from his jacket pocket.
"I'm sorry, who?" Clinton asked.
"Veronica Lucca, forty-one, gray hair, brown eyes," the man read a generic description. "She had several receipts from this store in her plaid coat pocket, all time-stamped within a minute or two every single day for," he looked at his notes again, "four months."
"Was that her name? Veronica Lucca?"
The officer stared blankly.
"Was the woman that got killed yesterday, according to the radio, a homeless lady, no teeth, ratty old coat, stunk to high Heaven?"
"Well, yes, that sounds like her."
"She'd actually been coming in here for about two years, officer." Clinton shrugged. "Don't know a thing about her."
"Nothing?" the officer shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "And you say you're a people-person?"
"Oh yes!" Clinton beamed. "I can't wait to go to school and help people."
As the glass door closed behind him and he heard the bell clang, the officer shook his head sadly.
"Ya don't need an education to help out. Some people just need to open their eyes."
Melissa wrote: OblivionVery nice Melissa, I like line or theme repetition in a story, like clockwork! Sadly the story rings true, too many do not see the forest for the trees.
"I love humanity, it's people I can't stand."
-John Lennon
No Time for Vanityby Mark Reeves
885 words
Her favorite book was, "A Picture of Dorian Gray", she carried it on all her travels, a good luck charm, a talisman against the ravages of time. Sitting at a small white and gold French Provincial piece of furniture she looked into its small mirror, and chortled, "I guess they call this a vanity for good reason."
Celeste Haze lives on Upper Canyon Road in Santa Fe, New Mexico. She lives there now, in this moment. Let me explain that, because she has not always lived here or in this moment.
My name is Paul Mathews, a struggling artist who lives on Lower Canyon Road. Celeste would pass my small adobe casita each day on her way to town. Past the galleries, the bars, the upscale restaurants that drew so many tourists to Santa Fe. We began to acknowledge one another as I sat in my front yard painting life on Canyon Road. We became casual friends, often seeing one another at night in El Farol, my favorite bar.
Celeste was striking, middle-aged, flame-red hair and an odd mix of Midwest America and Irish. She worked in a small pastry shop in the old La Fonda Hotel downtown where I went for my morning coffee. Everyone in Santa Fe has a back story, and I was seeking hers.
Celeste showed up to work early, setting up the tables. A regular came in, an old woman who had lived in Santa Fe forever. "Celeste, come by my house after work today, I am having a yard sale and there is something you might like," the old woman said with a wink.
The cuckoo clock was beautiful and Celeste got it for free, the old woman just gave it to her. She had placed it carefully in a cardboard box and sent her on her way. The old woman had told her, "It's over a hundred years old, it does not work anymore but it is a beautiful thing." Celeste hurried home with her prize past the bright blooming flowers along Canyon Road.
She passed me on the way home, "Look, I got a clock!", "Great, what time is it?", I smirked, "Screw you, mister cuckoo," came her reply. Celeste got home and took the clock out to clean and inspect. She opened the wooden door on the back to see the clockworks. How strange she thought, no gears or springs, instead a labyrinth of rods and spinning disks. Highly-polished spheres set into the works like Heaven's own system of stars and planets. Also a small notebook tucked away inside, she leafed through it, a list of previous owners no doubt, and she dutifully added her name to the end of the list. Celeste Haze, Santa Fe, New Mexico, 2014. The entry above hers was the old woman's, dated 1967.
Celeste tried to move the hands on the clockface forward, they would not budge, she turned them back, only slightly, a few minutes and stopped. She shuddered, and put the clock down. "Time for a drink," she said, grabbing her hat and coat and heading out the door.
It was dark outside, yet she had come home in the early afternoon, time must have slipped away from her. In El Farol she spotted me and sat down, "Hey cuckoo, how are you?", "What are you talking about," I replied. "You know, my clock!", she said, "I have no idea what you are talking about," I stammered. "Screw you," she barked as she slammed her drink down and walked out of the bar. Walking home she noticed the flowers had no blooms, how odd she thought, they were so brilliant this afternoon.
At home she studied the small book from the clock, as she leafed back through the pages they became more aged and ragged. Hundreds of names and dates, a few stood out, Robert Oppenheimer, 1942, Jorge Luis Borges, 1915, she kept going, Sir Issac Newton, 1687. She dropped the book. She took the clock, she spun the hands back. She went outside.
Santa Fe is a timeless city, one of the oldest houses dates back to 1608. Even today it is hard to tell if it is a modern city among centuries-old adobe buildings. Celeste bolted from her house, down the dark and deserted Canyon Road, but things were different, gas lamps, dirty boardwalks, the smell of animals. She got as far as my house, now a chicken coop in the yard of a hacienda and stopped. "I must go back home, something is terribly wrong," she thought aloud. She walked up Canyon Road, through a heavy fog, along the way she saw the gas lights slowly change, houses and fire hydrants slowly morphing through the mist into the present. Once home she sat at her vanity and the reflection gazing back at her was that of an old woman. For you see, there were rules involved, the clock came with no instructions. For every year you travel back it ages you one year. A hard lesson.
I was in my front yard when an old woman stopped by to have me paint some yard sale signs. She was a bitter old thing and when I mentioned how much time I had to finish the job she simply said, "Screw you." And walked off, down Canyon Road.
Great stories so far this week! Anne, I like how you described Penelope in the beginning with her "salt and pepper hair". I could picture her right away. This is such a beautiful story of how love comes full circle. I loved every bit of it. It was very fluid and easy to read. And yes, the past and present thoughts were clear. Great writing!
Garrison, I really liked the interaction between Diana and Ronan. I could easily see it. The Brahms reference helped me like Diana even more. =) And I loved the turn in the story; it definitely kept my interest. The ending made me think of real life, how bad things can happen even when we do our best. Great writing!
Melissa, your story caught my interest right away with the woman. At first I thought it was going to be a woman that the young man was interested in, but when I discovered it was the opposite case, my own interest held. The message of your story is quite powerful. And you showed it in a simple and tasteful way. It definitely felt like a complete story too. Great writing!
Garrison wrote: Twice the CutenessAlright Garrison, I'm going to go deep on this one, Steinbeck always had a flawed character in his work, and it always came to a bad end. I think as a reference to the flaws in humanity, and the way we treat each other as people. Although sad I see your point. Good story, well done!
There's no better way to wake up in the morning than reading awesome feedback from my awesome friends. I'm glad my story touched your hearts, even if it is in a sorrowful way. Thank you all so much. I'll definitely make time to read everyone's stories today. :)
Melissa, you’ve done a spectacular job on your story this week. Whenever I think of the absentminded clerk, I’m reminded of the old adage, “Talk is cheap.” Unfortunately, people like that exist in our culture: all talk and no action. It’s a tragic way to end a story, but it’s the most fitting. You keep teaching me new things every week with your writing, Melissa. Keep up the good work!Mark, for some strange reason, your story this week reminds me of a hybrid between the movie Something Wicked This Way Comes and an episode of The Twilight Zone where four rich people had to put on masks and when they took them off they were older. It’s an old-school scare story and you pulled it off in convincing fashion. Between you, Melissa, and Anne, we have some strong contenders for this week’s prompt. Good job!
Garrison, did you forget to tell everyone here that Nacho is based off of a real-life stray kitty who comes to visit you every now and then? Now’s your opportunity to tell them. It’s true, ladies and gentlemen: a big golden kitty who looks like melted cheese named Nacho comes to my house and sleeps in my garage every so often. No, he doesn’t have two faces and no, he’s not tiny. However, I do suspect somebody’s been mean to him in the past due to the scar on his left ear. If Nacho lets us, we’re going to give him a good home and let him roll around on our blankets and pillows. I might even get my best friend Susan to take a picture of him so I can post it online someday! ^_^
Thanks Garrison, You are right on track, sometimes I imagine I am writing a Twilight Zone episode, I did on this one. And Ray Bradbury's, "Something Wicked...", is one of my favorites. I thought of that book while doing the weather vane story. Are you psychic? You nailed it!And you definitely put forth a great effort this week.
As did you, Mark. It's going to be a close call in the polls when the week is over. :)
Mark, I just saw your post; I don't know how I missed it this morning. Great story! I thought it was brilliant the way you wrote it so the reader discovered what was going on along with the character. Nicely done!
Thank you Brenda, most kind of you. Initially I had it in first person but went back and named the narrator. Not sure what you call that. First person, once removed?
Mark wrote: "Thank you Brenda, most kind of you. Initially I had it in first person but went back and named the narrator. Not sure what you call that. First person, once removed?"Lol!
Thank you Mark, Brenda and Garrison! Yes, it is sad that people can't see what is right in front of them sometimes. So many missed opportunities. :(
Mark, Wow! I really enjoyed reading your story. I think it is by far my favorite of anything else you have written. I can see this turning into a novel and/or a movie. Very interesting and very well-written! Excellent! :)
Melissa, Thank you, high praise from a gifted writer is appreciated. You're one of the first I read each week.
Melissa wrote: "Very nice, Anne! I haven't even thought of what I am going to write yet! I don't think the back and forth from past to present was too much at all ... it enhanced the story! I bought myself a ho..."Thanks Melissa, appreciate the feedback - am just getting around to reading everyone's stories now.
Garrison wrote: "AUTHOR: Garrison KellyTITLE: Twice the Cuteness
GENRE: Modern Drama
WORD COUNT: 1,629
RATING: PG for one swear word and animal cruelty references
Garrison, What a sweet and tender story -- it really touched me.
Business was slow at the Sweetie Society Anima..."
Melissa wrote: "Here is my short story submission for the topic: Clockwork. Feedback is ALWAYS welcome!Word Count: 922
Oblivion by Melissa Andres
Clinton Watts worked the early morning shift at the 24 Hour, ..."
Great story, Melissa, you gave us a powerful message & unfortunately, it's so true.
Mark wrote: "No Time for Vanityby Mark Reeves
885 words
Her favorite book was, "A Picture of Dorian Gray", she carried it on all her travels, a good luck charm, a talisman against the ravages of time. Sittin..."
Woo-oo! I'm reading Twilight Zone here, I think! Great take on the clockwork theme, Mark. Well done.
Song of the Clockwork Larkby Ryan
1985 words, any feedback welcome
"Winnie? Winnie!"
The breath caught in Frank's throat as he looked down at his wife. Lying abed with sunshine sprinkling golden highlights through her white hair and eyes closed, she looked... He didn't want to finish the thought.
"I'm still here, love. Only barely, but I'm here," Winnie answered. As the afternoon doze slowly left her, she opened her eyes and squinted at the sun's brightness.
Frank tried not to let his concern show. "Here's some tea for you. Chamomile, perfect for this time of day." Frank placed the steaming cup on the tray fixed to Winnie's bed. He placed a second cup on the bedside table and seated himself in his customary spot at Winnie's side.
After taking a sip of tea, Frank rose and walked around Winnie's bed to the open window next to her. "You've opened the window again," he said, matter-of-factly. "You know the doctor's orders, the breeze is no good for your lungs."
"Hogwash. A bit of fresh air is exactly what my lungs need. Besides, I can't hear what my larks are saying with it closed."
Frank gently closed the window and sighed. He'd been nursing Winnie for months now as her health failed. When she'd first become ill, they used to sit out in the garden for most of the day, whenever the weather allowed it. They'd spent 60 blissful years of marriage creating the garden together and it was Winnie's favorite place to be. She'd researched meticulously and planted as many trees and shrubs as possible to attract her beloved larks. She was constantly shooshing Frank, pretending to listen to things the larks were telling her. Frank didn't mind, it made him smile and the larks' singing was definitely beautiful.
Lately, Winnie's health was reliant on machines and much more fragile. The trips outside were no longer possible and Winnie seemed to be fading faster without the company of her larks.
"Will you read me a poem?" Winnie asked.
"Of course, love. Which one would you like?"
Winnie handed him a book. "You choose, they're all good."
Frank looked at the cover. "Ryan Stone? That's an odd name for a poet. I've never heard of him before." Frank opened the book to a random page and began to read.
"Pressed Eucalyptus
The worn, russet couch opens its maw
and swallows me whole. A cool embrace and scent
of old leather finds a chink in my mind's armour.
A vision of you sneaks in. Tanned legs barely covered
by denim cut-offs wake buttermilk thoughts
of caramel ice and sunshine.
Cicada-song outside jolts sleep from the room. I wake
into a twilit summer's warm, mottled hues. Time
moves slowly, my skin breathes out. Freshly-cut lawn
flavours the scant breeze creeping past the fly screen
to tickle my mind. In the depths of the couch, my sleeping back
has unwittingly found your old sketchbook.
Lazy river Sundays seep from pages, as dry as the memories.
Moments and scenes captured in charcoal-scratched stasis,
your hand always as sure as your eye. A pressed-flower fallen
from our Red River Gum is caught between pages. I slam the book
shut and it slides away. You would have smiled to see
how deeply the paper cut."
As Frank's final words hung in the air and faded, he looked to where Winnie was slipping back into sleep.
"Thank you, Frank, that was wonderful. I love you so much."
"I thought poems were meant to rhyme," Frank said, but Winnie was already asleep.
Frank knew how much Winnie missed her larks and their soulful warbling. He watched helplessly as she slipped further away from him each day and realised the days spent outside among the birds had helped sustain her.
In a time long past, Frank had been a toy-maker. His handcrafted wooden and tin toys had been much sought-after for many years. Inevitably all things change and eventually batteries and computers replaced clockwork and clever crafting. Frank had welcomed retirement, although he maintained a small workshop where he still crafted toys occasionally. Frank and Winnie had never had children of their own but he liked to make toys as gifts for friends. A few times each year Frank would visit the small hospital near their house, loaded down with baskets of toys. His wonderful creations always elicited smiles and shrieks of joy from the sick children within.
Each night while Winnie slept, Frank toiled away in his workshop, putting all of his formidable crafting skills to use to create a lark for Winnie's bedside. He combined a number of metals and shaped a little body that he polished to a brilliant sheen. Frank's attention to detail and skillful hand created a form of beauty and wonder. His little lark in its golden coat looked as though it would burst into song at any moment. And that was the source of Frank's greatest despair. Despite his skill with clockwork and gears, he couldn't imitate the joyful notes of the larks' song. Each night he returned to his workshop, only to stumble out hours later, more and more depressed as each night passed. He knew his time with Winnie was running out but he couldn't find a solution to his problem.
* * * * *
One morning, in a rare moment away from Winnie's bedside, Frank was tending the patch of garden where they used to sit. A number of larks sat in nearby bushes and trees, chatting and singing as Frank worked below. As he rose slowly from a crouch, Frank saw one particular lark regarding him intently.
"I don't suppose you know how I can make my little bird sing as sweetly as you and your friends?" Frank asked it. Not surprisingly, the lark didn't reply, but continued to watch Frank as he returned to pulling weeds.
That night, exhaustion and worry overtook Frank as he toiled and he fell asleep at his workbench, drifting into a troubled sleep. Frank found himself wandering through a strange dreamscape and was startled when a lark swooped out of thin air and perched on a tree that materialised beside him. On closer inspection, Frank was sure it was the same lark from the garden that morning. As the lark began to sing softly, Frank's shock turned to wonder as he realised he could understand what the bird was saying.
"Do you still want to know the secret of my song?" the lark asked.
"You can talk?" Frank answered.
"Yes, of course. I've been talking to Winnie for years. She tried to tell you on a number of occasions."
"I...that is...I thought she was making it up."
"Why ever would she do that?"
"I don't know," Frank replied, still in shock.
"Your little metal bird is very well-made," the dream-lark continued.
"But I cannot make it sing. Winnie is dying and misses the sound of your birdsong terribly. I cannot bring her outside and she will not bring a bird inside. I thought I had the ability to make my clockwork bird sing, but I have failed."
"I will lend you my song, if that is your desire," said the lark.
"How can you do such a thing?"
"You do realise you just asked that question to a talking bird within a dream, I take it?"
"I see your point," Frank answered.
"Are you certain you want this boon, no matter the cost?" the lark asked.
"Yes, yes. Whatever it takes. Just please make my lark sing for Winnie."
"And so it is done. Place your lark beside Winnie's bed, Frank, then go to bed yourself. When you wake in the morning, you shall have your wish."
* * * *
"Frank! Oh, Frank!"
The following morning, Frank awoke to Winnie's elated cries. He didn't remember leaving his workshop or going to bed but those thoughts quickly faded, drowned by the jubilant shouts coming from across the hall. When he entered her room, Frank saw the little clockwork lark sitting in his wife's outstretched hands. He could see moisture gathering in her eyes.
"Oh, Frank, my love. It is beautiful. Thank you."
As the morning sun crept in the window, a ray touched the bird's head and the resulting glow filled the room with radiance. Seeing the wonderment in Winnie's eyes, Frank started to cry himself. He moved to her bed and pulled her close.
"What am I to do in this life without you, my sweet?" he wept.
"I'm almost ready to leave, my love," Winnie replied. "The only things I will miss now are you and my garden full of larks. Everything else is as it should be."
That day seemed full of magic to Frank. Winnie regained some of her strength and insisted on a trip outside into the garden. She refused to part with the little lark he'd made for her and often held it up to admire its beauty. Frank was disappointed that the bird didn't sing, he'd secretly hoped his strange dream might come true, but Winnie seemed to love the bird all the same. In the garden, many larks gathered round them and joined in an uplifting chorus of birdsong. The sun was shining and a gentle breeze brought their garden to life in a wash of color, movement and scent.
As the day wore on, Winnie became more and more animated. The sunshine, her larks, being outside again all combined to make her look twenty years younger, Frank thought. He hadn't seen her smile with such carefree abandon in many long months. Eventually the sun sank low to the horizon and the temperature dropped. Joining hands, Frank and Winnie made the slow, laborious trip back into the house. At the door, Winnie turned and looked out at the garden she loved so much. A soft refrain trilled from somewhere out among the trees.
They made their way upstairs and Frank tucked Winnie into bed. Once that was done, he settled into the chair beside her. Frank felt more tired and drained than he could ever remember being. Winnie leaned over and opened the window and Frank didn't have the energy to argue.
"Thank you, Frank. For everything," she said, but Frank had dozed off in his chair.
Sometime in the night, Frank awoke with a start. Loud, boisterous singing filled the bedroom. He looked to Winnie's bedside and saw his metal creation illuminated and glowing softly in the moonlight. Its head was cocked back and, to Frank's amazement, the beautiful song was coming from the small, metallic beak. He shifted his gaze to Winnie's face and saw his own wonderment reflected on the features he knew so intimately.
"You are a very thoughtful, clever man, Frank. I'm so happy we got to spend our lives together. I've loved every minute," she said.
As she finished speaking, Winnie glanced once more at the singing lark and then closed her eyes. Even before taking hold of her already-cooling hand, Frank knew Winnie was gone. He rested his head on his wife's lap and began to weep. The clockwork lark continued to sing and, with each note, Frank felt a tightening in his chest. The lark lowered the volume of its beautiful voice and sang a gentle song of love and loss and time never-ending.
When the Registered Nurse who helped tend to Winnie arrived the next morning, that is how she found them: lying entwined, their spirits already off and flying. The nurse's attention was drawn from her contemplation of the final testament to love by a noise from the window. She looked over and saw the most remarkable golden lark perched on the sill. As the nurse watched, the lark spread its wings and launched into flight, soaring out into the morning.
~ R ~
Hi, Anne. In answer to your question - no, there's nothing confusing about your past to present. You lead into and out of the shifts very smoothly. Such a beautiful story and you've told it very nicely. You've chosen some excellent details that stand out and really give a lot of depth to your story - the 2 alarm clocks, the baseball glove, the bridemaids' issues - these all work very well. I also like the way you've told the story in two slightly different versions of the same person. The present version of the narrator displays the calmness and sentimentality of an older person while the past is full of the passion and self-assuredness of youth. I found it very effective and most enjoyable.
It is also a fine example of good structure - a solid beginning, middle and end that leave the reader feeling satisfied and complete. Great story, well done!
Hey, Garrison. Man, you really got to me with that one. My blood boils when I hear of people hurting animals, especially when it relates to dog fights. You did a really good job of building the love and sympathy for Nacho (cool name) in the early story as well as showing Diana's caring nature. This works so well to make the ending as dramatic and powerful as it is. Really well done, mate. And I'm still chuckling at 'easy breezy lemon squeezy'! Thoroughly enjoyable story - your love of cats and animals shines through.
I'm glad you enjoyed my work this week, Ryan. Animal welfare is an important issue to me, so it makes me happy when someone appreciates the message in this story. I'll get to reading your story tomorrow. It's almost time for me to go to bed. Thank you so much for your comments!
Ryan Stone, I'm glad you've written something for this week :) Your story is like a children's tale--sweet, poignant and engaging. It's something I'd like to read to my kids before they go to sleep. Your poem adds a nice touch and I must admit that I could hear your voice when I got to that part.
Ah, so good, Melissa. I found myself right inside the store with your characters. I think your writing is very tight - I really didn't notice that I was reading this story, it just played out like a movie before my eyes. I like your message and you delivered it with perfect clarity. Completely engaging and enjoyable, I like everything about your story :)
Leslie Anne Onus, thank you so much :) Sorry that my voice crept into it, I hope that didn't ruin it for you too much ;)
Very cool, Mark. Your viewpoint suits this story so well and definitely adds to it. For me, a big part of the beauty is your portrait of Santa Fe. For someone who has never seen it, your description is vivid and full of color, sight and sound. Celeste is a wonderful, kooky and charismatic character who came to life as I read. You seem to have a knack of focusing on details just slightly left of centre and I find it really draws me into your stories. Excellent storytelling, I enjoyed every minute.
Thank you, Mark, Anne and Ryan for your compliments on my story!
And, Ryan -- Whoa!! Very touching! It almost made me cry! Seriously! What the husband did for his wife was so heartfelt and amazing. Plus, it has a little bit more of a special meaning for me -- I live on a street named Woodlark! How awesome is that? :) Excellent, excellent job!
And, Ryan -- Whoa!! Very touching! It almost made me cry! Seriously! What the husband did for his wife was so heartfelt and amazing. Plus, it has a little bit more of a special meaning for me -- I live on a street named Woodlark! How awesome is that? :) Excellent, excellent job!
Ryan, Damn you! You just had to post a story this week. I thought I had this week all sewn up, using my topic and all. I am kidding, please forgive me. And thank you for your comments.Yours is an amazing story, I so enjoyed this. The poem alone is so strong and nested within this story just makes it better. I like the word, twilit, which I did not know existed and now love. The piece is so well-crafted, much like the metallic lark. There is so much beauty and honest emotion that overshadows the obvious sadness. There is so much beauty in this world, thanks for sharing a small piece of yours.
Ryan wrote: "Hi, Anne. In answer to your question - no, there's nothing confusing about your past to present. You lead into and out of the shifts very smoothly. Such a beautiful story and you've told it very ni..."Thanks very much for your kind and generous words! Glad you enjoyed it.
Ryan wrote: "Song of the Clockwork Larkby Ryan
1985 words, any feedback welcome
"Winnie? Winnie!"
The breath caught in Frank's throat as he looked down at his wife. Lying abed with sunshine sprinkling gol..."
Wonderful story, Ryan! Very creative to insert a poem into a story. I got a chuckle out of this part: "Ryan Stone? That's an odd name for a poet. I've never heard of him before." A little humor balances out the strong emotions your story generates. I found it very moving with a perfect ending.
Thank you for your comments, Melissa. That is a funny coincidence - don't tell Guy, he's always on the look out for fushigis :)
G'day, Mark. That's some really nice feedback, thank you. I haven't written anything this short for awhile and forgot just how enjoyable it is. It is satisfying to go through and cut out everything irrelevant. Twilit is a great world. I love the little ones that are similar to words we use frequently but with subtle differences that make them feel new. Betwixt is another good one like that.
Hi, Anne. I really appreciate your feedback, thank you. I'm glad the humour worked, I didn't want the story to seem too emotional and hoped that would break it up a bit.
Ryan, I know you don’t compete in weekly short story contests as much as you used to, so whenever I see you’ve posted a story, I always make sure to cherish it. This story was no different. It was by far the sweetest and most beautiful thing you’ve written so far. You’ve proven to all of us that while death is inevitable, life is much more powerful. That, and I enjoyed it when you broke the fourth wall and inserted your own name in the piece. Hehe! You did good this week, just like you do with any contest you’re a part of. You just might have a clean sweep this week in the polls. Well done, my friend!
Please post directly into the topic and not a link. Please don’t use a story previously used in this group.
Your story should be between 300 and 3,500 words long.
REMEMBER! A short story is not merely a scene. It must have a beginning, a middle, and an end.
This week’s topic is: Clockwork
The rules are pretty loose. You could write a story about anything that has to do with the subject. I do not care, but it must relate to the story somehow.
Have fun!
Thank you to Mark for suggesting the topic!