Category: Short Story

Short Story

A BLOODY MESS

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

Robert hadn’t realized that he’d passed the point of no return until he found himself frantically searching the kitchen for anything that would remove blood stains. After getting an urgent call for help from his brother Daniel, Robert raced over to see what was the problem. Now he was knee deep in a drift of dastardly deadly deeds.

“DISSOLVE IMPOSSIBLE STAINS … TAR, WINE, GREASE, EVEN BLOOD!” read the label on a spray bottle of multi-purpose cleanser stashed under the sink.

“I found it!“ shouted Robert walking back into the parlor. Daniel was still standing over the body of Stuart Barclay, his business partner. 

“Great! Gimme that, Bobby. I have to get this blood stain out of Marilyn’s antique Persian rug before she gets back from her weekend in Manhattan. This is her favorite rug; it cost a fortune and can’t be replaced! 

“Danny, I think you’ve got bigger problems to worry about than your wife’s rug” replied Robert. “Stuart’s dead! You said it was an accident so why not just call the police?”

“I can’t! It’s not that simple, Bobby. Stuart had evidence against me.” 

“Meaning what, Danny?” 

“He confronted me months ago. He had proof I’d been embezzling and forging legal documents. Stuart was gonna turn me in and I couldn’t let that happen!” 

Agitated, Daniel paced the room. He continued: “I found out that Stuart was having an affair with the wife of our wealthiest and most important client. I had him followed. I have photos of them together. I called Stuart and suggested he come over tonight to talk and told him to use the rear entrance just to keep things on the down low. When he got here, I told him I knew about his affair. Things got heated and he came at me. I sidestepped him and Stuart cracked his head against the mantle. Bobby, if any of this gets out, I’ll be ruined. My reputation as an attorney will be trashed. I need your help, brother! We gotta clean this rug and get rid of Stuart’s body!” 

“Embezzling? How could you be so stupid, Danny?” exclaimed Robert. “Ok, look. What’s done is done and there’s nothing we can do about it now. You’re right – we gotta take care of this mess. I’ll scrub the rug; you go see if you can find some plastic sheeting or a tarp. I’ve got a plan.”

By the time Daniel returned with a tarp, rope and rubber gloves, the rug looked amazingly clean. “Good as new! That’s one problem solved” Robert declared.

“And no questions from Marilyn“ quipped Daniel. “Now tell me about your plan, Bobby.”

“Ok, Danny, this is what we’re gonna do. We wrap Stuart in the tarp and put him in his car; you drive his car down the back roads to the ditch at Quarry Road. Take it slow and keep the lights off. I’ll drive my car down the main road and we’ll meet up at the ditch. We can’t be too careful so if anyone happens to be watching the house, they’ll see only me leaving, not you. When we get to the ditch, all we have to do is get Stuart’s body out of the tarp, place him in the driver’s seat of his car, put the car in ‘DRIVE’ and give it a push down into the ditch. Then we’ll get in my car and drive back here. It’s perfect, Danny; it’ll look like an accident.”

“Yeah, that just might work, Bobby! It’s got to work!” replied Daniel. “Let’s do it!”

The brothers snapped on their gloves, rolled Stuart onto the tarp and tied it up; the bleeding from the gash in his forehead had finally stopped. They struggled getting Stuart’s body out the back door and into his car; for a skinny little prick, he sure was heavy! Once they had the body secured in the passenger’s seat, Daniel got behind the wheel and drove off, taking the back roads to the ditch.

As planned, Robert and Daniel met up at Quarry Road. Still wearing their rubber gloves, they lifted Stuart out of the passenger seat, removed the tarp, placed him behind the wheel in the driver’s seat and buckled his seatbelt. Making sure the gear was in ‘DRIVE’, they pushed Stuart’s car down the ditch and watched it crash into the stone wall of the abandoned quarry.

Tossing their gloves onto the tarp, they balled everything up and stuffed it into one of the old metal trash cans near the quarry. Robert threw a lit match into the can and the duo, now co-conspirators, smoked a joint as the tarp and gloves melted away into nothingness. Robert pocketed what was left of the joint, then the brothers showered the contents of the trash can with sand and rocks to smother any remaining embers. Taking a quick look around, they headed back up to Robert’s car.

Everything went off without a hitch and for the first time that night they relaxed. Once back at Daniel’s house, Robert cautioned his brother to speak about this to no one …. not his wife, not his priest, not his mistress.

Three days later the police discovered Stuart’s car in the ditch; there was no apparent sign of foul play. There was also no one in the car nor anyone nearby, dead or alive.

That evening Daniel got a call. “Hey, partner. You’re a bigger loser than I could have imagined! We’ve got some unfinished business to discuss, Danny boy.” 

Daniel felt light-headed and slumped against the wall. The caller was Stuart and he sounded very much alive. 

NAR © 2023

This is the American rock group Kansas performing “Point of Know Return”.

It’s all new
Birthday Thursdays
at The Rhythm Section.
No talk, no fuss, no muss.
Just wall-to-wall music!
Stop by and check it out!
🎂
https://rhythmsection.blog/

Short Story

JULY MORNING

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

Trigger Warning: The unspeakable events in Israel this week
have left me numb. This is a very bleak tale.
I hope you will bear that in mind
as you read my story today. Thank you.

© I Goodheir

The church used to be there, across the river.

Rumors were that Pastor Roderick had a squaw named Chenoa who kept house for him. People talked; they agreed the relationship seemed …. peculiar. One October night a few curious boys paddled across the river. Hearing shouting, they crept to the vicar’s cabin and peeked in a window.

Roderick was drunk and yelling at Chenoa. The boys were startled when the vicar threw his glass across the room and reached for a birch cane by the hearth. He grabbed Chenoa and ripped the front of her tunic from neck to hem, leaving her standing naked and trembling. He wrestled out of his waistcoat and began whipping Chenoa’s breasts as she sobbed. Purple welts appeared on her chest and bloody droplets trickled down her belly. Roderick licked the blood, then twisted Chenoa around and entered her from behind. When he was done, he pushed her to the floor.

The boys fled and told their parents what they had witnessed. The next morning the sheriff and a posse rowed out and discovered the church and cabin burned to the ground. Roderick was dead, an arrow sticking angrily out of his neck; he had been scalped. There was no sign of Chenoa.

On a sultry July morning the village women went berry picking by the river. They screamed out in horror at the sight before them: a despondent Chenoa had hanged herself from an oak tree. The papoose on her back cradled a sleeping infant.

NAR © 2023
250 Words

The Unicorn Challenge-13/10/23

If you are unable to view the video, which I understand is a frequent problem, it can be found on YouTube. Sorry for the inconvenience. The song is “July Morning” by Uriah Heep. This is a pic of the version I chose for today’s story:

Short Story

SOUNDS OF SILENCE

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

It’s a sad commentary when two people are out spending time with each other and yet they are miles apart – or so it may seem at first glance; this is not always true as we will soon learn in the case of Dan and Josephine.  

This was the lesser of two evils as far as our young couple was concerned for, you see, people would talk about them no matter what they did and they are still too unsophisticated to grasp the concept that what other people think of them is not their problem. 

I know I’m one of the guilty ones when I see two people out together, each one glued to their cell phone, totally ignoring the person they’re with; my first reaction is “how stilted and stifled is this relationship, how bored are these young people that they can’t even carry on a conversation with each other?” and I think of my husband of 50+ years and how we always find something (or someone) to talk about.

Perhaps I’m the one with the problem of being judgmental and jumping to conclusions.

Let’s go back to the case of Dan and Josephine, the young couple in our photo; what people observing them are not aware of is the fact that both Dan and Josephine are deaf and since they have been ridiculed, teased, mimicked and stared at for using sign language while out in public, they have opted to carry on their conversations via text. 

Maybe next time we should remember to mind our own damn business and not jump to conclusions; there may be a very good reason – a personal and sometimes difficult decision people are forced to make – and it’s not our place to point fingers …. even if they really are just ignoring each other. 🙈 🙉 🙊

NAR © 2023

October 4th #1MinFiction Challenge
Sunday’s Six Sentence Story Word Prompt!
Short Story

KETCHUM, IDAHO

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬
© Ayr/Gray

“Papa, you said we were going fly fishing today. I’ve been waiting hours! What’s taking you so long?”

Lorian stood at the entrance to her grandfather’s study, an adorable 8 year old tomboy in hip waders, boots, a plaid shirt and golden-brown hair in pigtails, tied with a bow the exact shade of red as in her shirt. Arms folded significantly across her chest, she stared at her grandfather’s typewriter as if wiling it to spontaneously combust.

Ernest turned to face his granddaughter. He spoke to her as though she was one of his cigar-smoking buddies, not like a child, and she loved him for that.

“I’ve got to keep one step ahead of that damn Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words? He says I don’t know the $10 words. I know them, alright. But there are older and simpler and better words and those are the ones I use.”

He paused but Lorian knew not to answer. She also knew not to tell Papa that her mother was reading Faulkner’s newest book.

“Besides, he’s an alcoholic. Good thing he’s Republican!”

“Papa, can we go fishing now? The fish ain’t gonna wait all day!” and Ernest laughed at that remark. Then he spotted his gun leaning against the wall.

“Forget fly fishing, Lorian! We’re going duck hunting!”

“But, Papa. Mommy says I’m too young to shoot a gun.”

“Well, she’ll only know if you tell. Grab my hat, kiddo. Duck’s ain’t gonna wait all day!”

NAR © 2023
250 Words

The Unicorn Challenge-06/10/23

Short Story

THE WHISPERING COTTAGE

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

“It’s a nice house, don’t you think, Virginia? The property is a decent size. And the fresh air! Just what the doctor ordered.” 

Finding the perfect house for his ailing wife was first and foremost on Edgar’s mind.  

Encouragingly, he continued: “It’s quite affordable at $5 a month! Downstairs there’s one bedroom, the parlor and a nice kitchen which your mother will put to good use. And upstairs is another bedroom for us with my very own writing niche.”  

From their carriage Virginia smiled at her husband, covering her mouth with a  handkerchief as the deep cough began again. Edgar hurried to her side and she stared lovingly into his eyes. “Yes, my dear. I think we will be very happy here.”  

“Then it’s settled! I’ll finalize the rental while you rest here.” Before returning to the cottage Edgar covered Virginia with a blanket to protect her from the cool April breeze. 

Sitting in the carriage with her mother, Virginia gazed at the cottage. “A lovely little home for the three of us, Mother.” Closing her eyes, Virginia pictured their caged songbirds on the porch, a rocking chair nearby where she could rest in the sun and work on her needlepoint.

“Virginia, I’ve been waiting for you“

Opening her eyes, Virginia asked her mother to repeat what she just said, but Maria assured her she had said nothing. Again Virginia closed her eyes and again she heard the gentle voice in her ear.

 “Virginia, welcome home”

An unusual peace came over Virginia as she realized it was the cottage whispering to her. “My lovely forever home”, she thought. 

They moved in on a beautiful day in May of 1846 and they were happy there. In the evenings after eating a modest meal prepared by Maria, Edgar worked on his poem “Eulalie” while the family cat sprawled across his shoulders and Virginia dozed by the fireplace.

How Virginia glowed with happiness that gloriously sunny day as Edgar proudly displayed the etched wooden signpost which read “POE COTTAGE”.

But even with constant care, sunshine and fresh air, Virginia’s consumption became worse, her waif-like body wracked with fits of coughing. 

In January Virginia’s health began to fail rapidly. Edgar stayed by her side day and night, reading to her, until at last on January 30, Virginia heard the whispering cottage beckoning her. 

She died peacefully that night in Edgar’s warm embrace as he softly recited –

“This maiden she lived with no other thought
than to love and be loved by me.”

NAR © 2023

Author’s Note: The Poe Cottage is the former home of American writer Edgar Allan Poe. It is located on Kingsbridge Road and the Grand Concourse in the Fordham neighborhood of The Bronx, New York, a short distance from its original location and about 20 minutes from the house where I grew up. I was privileged to visit Poe’s house many times. The cottage is now located in the northern part of Poe Park and is part of the Historic House Trust, listed on the National Register Of Historic Places, administered by The Bronx County Historical Society since 1975. It is believed to have been built in 1797.

It’s all new
Birthday Thursdays
at The Rhythm Section.
No talk, no fuss, no muss.
Just wall-to-wall music!
Stop by and check it out!
🎂
https://rhythmsection.blog/

Short Story

BALLS TO THE WALL

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

While reading the real estate section, my wife Jen called out to me. “Hey, Eric, check this out. You know that community we love? One of the houses is available, has everything we want plus a big yard and a pool. And get this – they’re asking only $275,000! That’s well within our budget!”  

“Seriously?  Those houses usually go for twice as much! Wonder why it’s so low.”  

“The agent’s number is right here” replied Jen. “Let’s call.”  

After a brief phone conversation, we agreed to meet at the house at noon. When we arrived, the real estate agent explained to us that the previous owners had moved back to England for work purposes and were anxious for a quick sale – even at a loss.

The community was lovely and families were outside enjoying the great weather. The house we had our eye on was even more beautiful than we imagined – not a thing wrong. We asked the agent to make arrangements for an inspector to check everything out and a few days later he reported the house to be in excellent condition. Any doubts were removed from our minds.  

“Well, babe”, I said, giving  Jen a hug, “looks like we just found our dream house!”  

Two weeks later we moved in and everyone was extremely welcoming. In fact, the guy next door came over the first night we were in the house to invite us to a barbecue that weekend. We knew we were going to love this place.

The barbecue was fun and gave us a chance to meet all our new neighbors. Later that night at home we talked about how nice everyone was; in particular, Jen was surprised by how helpful the men were – “Except for that one awkward scene when Barb got annoyed with Gil because his potato salad had too much mayo!” she laughed.

As time went by, we couldn’t help noticing that all the men were house-husbands while all the women went to work. How odd! One night Gil called to invite me to the weekly Friday night poker game at his house and Jen to a ladies book club night at Susan’s. 

The card game was going well and I was on a winning streak when out of the blue Gil asked “So, Eric, when are you gonna get your balls snipped?”

 Totally thrown off base, I gagged on my drink. “Excuse me??” I sputtered.

“You know. Snipped! We’re all snipped” Gil answered, making little scissor cutting gestures with his fingers. “Dr. Susan does it, smooth and easy. Our wives convinced us life would be much calmer that way and it is. Here’s her number.”  

Mumbling hasty excuses, I hurriedly left the game and dashed home, colliding with Jen running home from the other direction. 

“Do you know what they do here?!?” she asked, horrified. 

I nodded frantically. “And the only things getting cut are our losses! C’mon! We’re outta here!” 

NAR © 2023

I hope you’ll join me today
as I take you on a
new musical journey
In The Groove.
It’s gonna rock your world!
https://rhythmsection.blog/

Short Story

DAYS OF RAIN

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬
© Ayr/Gray

The early morning air was thick with the smell of rain, the stillness almost suffocating. I was determined to finish my walk and get back home before the storm hit. Still on the historic Leatherstocking Trail which snakes its way through the woods near the old train station, I had about a mile to go.

There was an alien look about the sky, otherworldly and menacing. Tenebrous clouds, clumsy and swollen like an over-full bladder, partially obscured a series of long, jagged slashes of coppery-red. I was reminded of the familiar adage:

“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.
Red sky at morning, sailor’s warning.”

Nothing about this day bode well.

I stopped to tie back my hair and pull the hood of my jacket over my head, securing it snugly with the drawstring. A few rumbles of thunder warned me not to dawdle; there would be no stopping this rain.

The threat of the approaching nor’easter brought with it the unwelcome promise of flooding – a frequent visitor in these low-lying areas of the Hudson Valley.

I quickened my pace, the only sound the muffled slap of my sneakers hitting the leaf-strewn path.

An impressive bolt of lightning split the sky, followed by a barrage of thunder. By now my indignant left knee was barking ferociously and I cursed for having walked so far.

My house finally came into view. The rain started as I climbed the steps to my front door; a forlorn train whistle howled in the distance.

NAR © 2023
250 words

NB – As I am writing this, New York, the place I call home, is in a State of Emergency due to unrelenting rainstorms and severe flooding. This rain is the worst we’ve had in years. Four continuous days of rain last week and now this. The saturated ground cannot hold any more water and it has nowhere to go but up. Exhausted from bailing out our basement, we finally gave up, defeated. No matter what we do, the water will always win.

The Unicorn Challenge-29/09/23
Short Story

HOUSECALLS

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

Saunders Drive. On the right corner stood the library, looking exactly as it did the last time I saw it. Diagonally across the street was the church we attended every Sunday, the preacher bellowing about morals and principles. Directly across from the church was a quaint-looking inn with a sign over the doorway – “Welcome Home!” And on the fourth corner was the big Colonial house where the Casey Family lived.

Jeff Casey was my first boyfriend; feels like a hundred years ago. Now there was a prominent shingle on the front lawn which read JEFFREY CASEY, M.D. A doctor! I never should have broken up with him! 

My childhood house was a stone’s throw from the Casey’s. Not quite ready to see the old place just yet, I kept walking. About halfway down Main Street, I came across a boho-chic coffee shop/poet’s corner called “Beggars, Cynics and Euripides”. A pretty young woman wearing a rainbow tie dyed hippie skirt was preparing lunch tables outside. The freshly-painted red chairs were staggering in their brilliance. She smiled pleasantly at me and asked if I’d like a table. 

“Why not?” I answered as she handed me a menu. I was engrossed in reading the descriptions of the lunch fare when I became aware of someone standing nearby watching me. Glancing over my shoulder, I was pleasantly surprised to see the still-handsome face of Jeff Casey grinning at me. 

“Rebecca Gardner! My God! What’s it been – 20 years? What brings you back to town?” 

“Jeff! You look great!” and I instinctively hugged him. “Please join me.”

The waitress took our orders for iced coffee and as we waited, that warm, relaxed feeling between us resurfaced. 

“Twenty years exactly. My folks sold the house after I graduated college. Honestly, I’m not sure why I’m here. Memories, you know?” 

We caught up on life – marriages, divorces, etc. – and I mentioned going to see my old house but for whatever reason I was nervous. 

Jeff tossed a twenty on the table and said “Come on. Let’s go together.” And before I could think of an excuse, he took my hand and we were on our way. 

“The Matthews Family lives here now. Nice people.” Jeff bounded up the front steps and rang the doorbell. No answer. 

The old oak tree was standing proud and tall in the front yard. My fingers lightly traced the weathered heart shape with our initials carved inside and we shared a smile and unspoken memories.

We strolled up Saunders Drive to Jeff’s place, neither of us in a rush for this bubble of serendipity to burst. Jess sighed. “Well, I’ve got patients to see.” 

“And I’ve got a train to catch” I replied. “Jeff, it’s been too long. Let’s keep in touch.” 

“I’d like that, Becca. By the way, I make housecalls.” He smiled over his shoulder as he disappeared inside. 

NAR © 2023

It’s all new
Birthday Thursdays
at The Rhythm Section.
No talk, no fuss, no muss.
Just wall-to-wall music!
Stop by and check it out!
🎂
https://rhythmsection.blog/

Short Story

THE CHOSEN

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

When I was a kid, I attended a private Lutheran school from First Grade all the way through my senior year in high school; being in an unusually close environment such as that with a bunch of other kids was like having a very large extended family and, just like siblings, there were days when we fought like cats and dogs and there were times when we’d do anything for one another. 

Being a relatively small school, there were some features we didn’t have that you would normally find in a larger public school; for example, we had a gymnasium but not an auditorium so phys ed and basketball games were held in the same room as our concerts, plays, pep rallies and graduations. We also did not have a cafeteria where students could buy food for lunch; everyone brought their own lunch, which we ate in the lunchroom or student union, and were able to buy snacks, desserts, candy, ice cream and cartons of milk in the small school store just off the lunchroom. 

The snacks in the little store were nothing special – mostly things like chips, pretzels, Hostess Twinkies and Snowballs, Sugar Daddys, Tootsie Rolls and novelty candy items like Pixie Stix, miniature wax bottles filled with a sticky sweet liquid, button candy and tiny ice cream cones that weren’t ice cream at all but some kind of rubbery sugar substance – but we also had real ice cream and individual cartons of both regular milk and chocolate milk; it’s funny but the feature I remember most about those milk cartons was the round perforation on the top side where a straw could be inserted for mess-free drinking. 

One unforgettable day when I was in fifth grade, a representative from Drakes Cakes came to our school and our class learned it had been selected as the official ‘taste tester’ for a bunch of new products being considered for the school store; once every week for about four months we got to sample items that weren’t as yet available to the public for sale such as Funny Bones, Ring Dings, Devil Dogs, Yodels, Coffee Cakes and Fruit Pies. 

Man oh man … as you can well imagine, that was one of the most amazing times in our young lives and by far the best year we ever had in school; my class was the envy of all the other kids and I still can’t resist those delicious devil’s food cake ‘hot dogs’ filled with whipped cream that we all know as Devil Dogs.

NAR © 2023

Sunday’s Six Sentence Story Word Prompt!
Short Story

HONEYSUCKLE AND PROVOLONE

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

The minute she walked into my deli on Arthur Avenue, I was blown away. She knocked my socks off. Even through the crack in the storage room door I was dazzled by this profusion of red hair the color of a bright autumn day, creamy skin with a splash of freckles and captivating emerald eyes. I’ve got a weakness for gingers and I fell head over heels. 

I’m Bruno Deluca – or Mr. Monotone compared to the stunning Monarch butterfly that just gaily flew into my market. I have the quintessential Italian look – walnut brown hair, coffee brown eyes and a perpetual deep tan. But I have a sparkling smile and dimples “to die for”, as my Aunt Carmella always says. 

This amber goddess stood in front of the meat and cheese display, a bewildered look on her face. Here’s my big chance. I dashed from the back room and positioned myself directly in her line of vision. “Welcome to Deluca’s Salumeria. May I help you with something, miss?” [Smooth, right? Not to mention original!] 

She looked up and I flashed her my trademark smile. And she smiled back, blushing winsomely. My knees grew weak when she spoke, her lilting Irish brogue a sweet surprise. 

“Everything looks so exotic and delicious! I wouldn’t know what to order, even if could pronounce the names!” And when she laughed I swear I saw musical notes wafting through the air. 

“No problem” I replied as I swiftly came around to her side, naming and describing all the meats and cheeses. 

She smelled like honeysuckle. I smelled like provolone. 

She still couldn’t make up her mind so I tried something radical. “How about I give you a few samples – on the house – if you promise to come back and buy something, even if it’s one slice of salami?” 

She hesitated for a second, then laughingly said “You have a deal, Mr…..” 

“Deluca. Bruno Deluca. And you are…..?” 

She extended a delicate porcelain hand. “Rowan McCourt. Pleased to meet you, Bruno.”

“Rowan, eh? That’s a lovely name. What does it mean?” 

Tentatively toying with her hair she said “Little Red-haired One. And what does Bruno mean?” 

I shrugged and matter-of-factly stated “Brown” and we both burst out laughing! 

I packed up a nice selection of sliced meat and cheese and some of my best Italian bread. “Here ya go, Rowan, and don’t forget…..” 

“Oh, no Bruno! This is too much! I couldn’t possibly…..!” 

“Go! Enjoy! It’s always good to have leftovers. See you soon!” 

The next day I kept glancing at the door; I couldn’t get Rowan out of my head and I was disappointed when she didn’t return. True to her word, though, she was back the following morning.

“Bruno, everything was delicious!” she declared excitedly. “Now what shall I buy?”

She browsed for a minute. “That looks incredible! What is it?” 

“That’s lasagna – sheets of wide pasta layered with ricotta, mozzarella, grated Parmigiano Reggiano cheese, sauteèd chopped beef and sausage in my homemade tomato sauce. It’s already cooked; just heat and enjoy. Would you like to try it?”

“I would indeed! You make it all sound so delicious, Bruno. My mouth is watering!”

“You won’t regret your decision, Rowan. Lasagna is one of our specialties. How much would you like?” 

“Enough for a few portions, please” Rowan replied. Her smile was radiant.

“Ah, leftovers. You remembered!” I said, smiling back. 

“Actually, Bruno, I was hoping you would join me for dinner tonight.”

It took me a second to remember to breath. “I’d love to” I whispered while inside I was shouting “YES! I’d love to!” 

“Wonderful! Here’s my address. See you at 7:00. And Bruno, can you bring a bottle of wine and some of your fabulous bread?” Rowan asked. 

I stared into her eyes and nodded mutely.

“Bruno, I’m very happy you’ll be joining me tonight.” Taking her bag, Rowan floated out the door. The slightest trace of honeysuckle tickled my nose.

NAR ©2023

Happy Birthday to my guy, my special Mr. Bill 🧡

Please join me today
In The Groove
as we conclude
Motown Memories.
What could be next?
https://rhythmsection.blog/

Short Story

WITHOUT A TRACE

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬
© Ayr/Gray

Behind the windows of this estate there once resided a reclusive couple. It’s said that everyone has a story; this couple was no exception. 

As young newlyweds they longed for a child but were unable to conceive. They sought the advice of seers and gypsies, to no avail.

Now middle-aged, the wife found she was pregnant. She was told the babe would not survive but survive it did and grew inside its mother, causing her great discomfort. Finally the time arrived for the birth. The wife labored for hours and as the baby’s head began to emerge, the midwife screamed and ran from the house.

The husband took the midwife’s place and immediately recoiled in fear. The wife pleaded for her husband to pull the baby from her body but he refused. Reaching down between her legs, the wife grabbed hold and pulled until the babe was free. Asking her husband to bring the lantern closer so she could see the infant, the new mother gasped and cried out in horror and despair. 

The poor babe was grotesque, his head enormous with eyes fused closed and his mouth a mere slit.

Without looking back, the husband left the house, heading to the tavern to drown his sorrows. He informed everyone that the baby had died. Filled with remorse, he returned home to find his wife and baby gone. He went searching but never found them. He died, a broken man. 

No trace was ever found of the mother or baby.

NAR © 2023
250 Words

The Unicorn Challenge-22/09/23
Short Story

THE NIGHT STALKER

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

The other night I was sound asleep when I gradually became aware of a noise somewhere in the background of my mind. I could tell it wasn’t an intruder … nothing so threatening or invasive as that. It was more of an ambient sound; it came and went and I was only vaguely aware of it – just enough to ambush my slumber.

The recurring sound eventually roused me completely from my sleep. Asking myself “What is that?”, I elbowed my snoring husband and was rewarded with a prolonged, irritated grunt. Whispering his name and tapping him on the shoulder did nothing so I was forced to use the bicep shove.

“Honey! There’s a noise and it won’t stop. I think it may be coming from the bathroom.”

“GRLBRTH! Probly tlet. Jgl hndl” was my husband’s alien-sounding response. Being fluent in S.I. (Sleepus Interruptus), I had no trouble translating. I padded into the bathroom and jiggled the toilet handle, per my husband’s instructions. I listened to the water run for a bit, then stop. Quiet was restored.

All of a sudden, something felt like it darted by me and I was momentarily startled. Cautiously I found my way to the bedroom door, and peeked into the hall; without my glasses I could only make out blurred images but nothing seemed amiss. Satisfied all was as it should be, I turned back into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar to allow for the air to circulate on this cool September night.

I climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up around my face. Just as I was about to slip back into the arms of Morpheus, the noise returned and I did an eye roll behind my closed lids. Reluctant to leave my cozy cocoon a second time, I chose the wait-and-see option. Eventually the sounds stopped and I fell back to sleep.

Like the soft beat of a tom-tom on a far-away island, the distant yet persistent swooshing sound once more made its presence known. My shoulders sagged and I sighed deeply; a grim realization set in – sleeplessness had won out. I felt cheated, gypped out of a decent night’s stay in The Land of Nod.

As I lay there becoming increasingly annoyed, another vexing fact occurred to me: today was the beginning of a long holiday weekend. The odds of contacting a plumber, let alone finding one willing to come to the house, would be slim at best.

I sat up in bed, my back resting against the cushy pillows, as my vision gradually became accustomed to the dimness of the pre-dawn hour. Squinting through sandy eyes, I barely made out an ethereal shadow in the bathroom; it was the Night Stalker – of that I was certain. I reached for my glasses and the creature’s image came into clear view. She looked directly into my eyes and intentionally, deliberately choosing to defy me, stretched out her arm.

What happened next was something I had never witnessed before; I stared in amazement. Part of me was amused, just slightly. Reaching for a paperback book on my nightstand, I heaved it in the general direction of the offender in the bathroom. The book missed its mark and succeeded only in knocking several items to the floor.

“You little bitch,” I hissed.

She jumped off the toilet and strolled away indifferently, typically ignoring my existence.

“Next time jiggle the handle, you beast!’

Lucy Richy, The Night Stalker
© NAR

NAR © 2023

The Friday Reminder and Prompt for #SoCS Sept. 16, 2023
FOWC with Fandango — Ambush

It’s all new
Birthday Thursdays
at The Rhythm Section.
No talk, no fuss, no muss.
Just wall-to-wall music!
Stop by and check it out!
🎂
https://rhythmsection.blog/

Short Story

VISUAL VERSE

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

An ekphrastic vignette written for the last issue of Visual Verse. 

Happy to say I made the final cut. Thanks, sis.

ON BROKEN WINGS

There’s a feeling you get when a relationship is about to end. It sort of sneaks up on you like ivy climbing up a tree trunk. You see it starting but it’s nothing terribly worrisome; then it slowly starts working its way up the trunk until it overtakes the tree. It’s got a strangle-hold on that poor tree, suffocating it. It doesn’t matter if it’s a mighty oak or a frail mimosa; the ivy will win out every time.

That’s the feeling I now had for Jeremy and I don’t know why. I just knew it was time to break things off. That was clear; what wasn’t clear was how I was going to tell him.

It’s not as though we started off like a couple of teenagers on a hormone rush. Ours was a gradual connection much like our disconnection. We had chemistry. We could make each other laugh. We liked the same music, the same food, the same movies. We could talk at length or enjoy a quiet, lazy Sunday afternoon. And we had great sex.

Jeremy gave me a rose-colored braided love knot ring; I accepted it because it was pretty and didn’t feel as permanent as a real ring.

We talked about moving in together but it never happened. Now I’m glad we didn’t; that would have made things so much harder. It was good to come and go as we pleased; now I found we were doing that less and less. I don’t believe it was deliberate; we just started drifting apart. Everything gradually slowed down and cooled off. I realized at some point I had finally exhaled and I was no longer suffocating.

We spent a cool Spring afternoon sitting on a bench at the beach. Watching the waves rolling in and falling back, I knew the time had come. Quietly I told Jeremy what I was feeling and he slowly nodded in agreement. I think he was glad the pressure was off him. I started to remove my ring but Jeremy refused to take it back. 

I slowly walked away and took the long route home through the park. It had begun to drizzle. I stared down at the pavement as I walked. Just then I came upon a dead bird at my feet. I stood there staring at the poor little finch; he must have fallen out of his nest. I took a few tissues from my pocket, wrapped them around the bird and carefully picked him up; he was still warm, his tiny body limp.

I carried the lifeless bird home and retrieved a small spade from my gardening tools on the back porch. It began raining a little heavier as I dug a deep hole beneath the tidy row of boxwoods; there I buried the bird. Before filling his grave with dirt, I took off Jeremy’s rose-colored ring and placed it across the broken wings.

My face was wet; I didn’t know if it was the rain or my tears.

NAR © 2023

Short Story

SEPTEMBER HEATWAVE

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

“Scorching weather we’re experiencing, Maureen. Unheard-of for September. You and Jamie might want to consider postponing your holiday for a while. As you know, your Aunt Camilla detests air conditioning and those wretched noisy fans; I fear you will be terribly uncomfortable here. We’re off to Spain in October and staying through Christmas and the New Year, a long-overdue visit with our darling Penelope and son-in-law Alejandro. Aunt Camilla says she’s dying to see Cherbourg again and has her heart set on February. I think perhaps April would be a more suitable time for you to visit, Maureen dear. Springtime here is brilliant, as you undoubtedly recall. Do let us know your decision. Hope New York is treating you well. Love to Jamie and Josie. –Uncle George”

I stared at my uncle’s email in dismay. It had been eight years since I left England for New York. Jamie and I met at work; we fell in love and were married the following year. Neither of our families were able to attend our wedding. Jamie’s family is from Scotland so we decided to kill two birds with one stone by spending our honeymoon in Wales. We set aside two weeks to visit Jamie’s family in Perth, my parents in Newcastle Upon Tyne as well as my aunt, uncle and cousin Penelope in Kent.

Now I was looking forward to a return trip, an end of summer vacation and Uncle George was going on about an oppressive September heatwave. Having to postpone our vacation until April was dreadfully disappointing.

We had just booked our flight that morning and made reservations at some of the many attractions in the area. Our plans included a visit to Canterbury Cathedral, Port Lympne Animal Reserve, Chiselhurst Caves and Hever Castle with its incredible labyrinthine gardens. I could just picture our five-year-old daughter Josie running through the vast field of mazes, giggling at every dead end.

I knew Aunt Camilla and Uncle George would be happy to watch Josie for a few hours, giving me and Jamie a chance to go on a tour of Shepherd Neame Brewery. Their menu of ales and lagers was extensive, each one brewed to perfection. I must admit after years in New York I preferred my beer served ice cold in a frosty mug – not at the traditional ‘English cellar temperature’. I never did care for the taste of a tepid brew and finding a crisp cold beer could prove challenging. However, with so many brews to choose from at Shepherd Neame, I was willing to bet that wouldn’t be a problem.

When I told Jamie about my uncle’s email, he reminded me that we had 24 hours to cancel our flight and reservations without incurring a penalty. The first thing we needed to do was check with the airline, then we could look into our other plans. Lady Luck was definitely on our side; we were able to reschedule our flight and all our activities without any problems. In fact, our new agenda was going to be even better than originally planned.

Hever Castle had recently opened an area called “Adventure Playground” where kids ruled the castle. Josie could discover and explore Tudor Towers with its 2 metre high willow structure, a giant sandpit and grassy mounds with hidden tunnels. There were secret dungeons, moats and turrets plus climbing frames, swings and slides. Josie would never want to leave!

Perhaps that image was the seed that started sprouting in my brain!

I began entertaining serious thoughts about moving back to England permanently; the list of positives far outweighed the negatives. I had no family tying me to The States. My parents chose to retire in Tuscany so visiting them from the UK would be an easy jaunt and Josie would finally get to spend time with her grandparents. Jamie, I knew, would love the idea of being close to his family, not to mention the fact that his firm had a branch office in London. When Josie was eligible to start first grade at age six there would be no shortage of good schools to choose from. Looking over my list, I could see no viable reason for us to remain in New York.

When I brought up the subject with Jamie, he was enthusiastic about the prospect of returning to the UK. It would be an experience of a lifetime for Josie, not to mention an exceedingly happy surprise for our families when they learned we’d be moving back home.

Now that the decision was made, we were more excited than ever! I smiled when I realized this all came about because of an unseasonal September heatwave. Who knew all our grousing about the oppressive heat would have such a happy ending! The most difficult part would be keeping our plans a secret from the family. The next morning I responded to Uncle George’s email:

“Wonderful news, Uncle George! We had no trouble at all changing our travel plans to April. After months and months of FaceTiming, Josie can’t wait to finally meet you and Aunt Camilla in person, not to mention her grandparents! Jamie and I are so looking forward to being with family again; we’ve missed you all terribly. I’ve saved the best for last but only a hint for now: we have a big surprise planned which I’ll share with you in good time. Are you curious? Do try to have patience, dear Uncle George! Stay cool and give our love to Aunt Camilla and Penelope. Till next time ~ Maureen.”

Hever Castle Gardens

NAR © 2023

I hope you’ll stop by
The Rhythm Section
today for some hot tunes
on Birthday Thursdays!
https://rhythmsection.blog/

Short Story

BURN MY BISCUITS

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

Today’s burning question from Cyranny is: “What’s one odd thing about yourself that you would never want to change?”

Perhaps it’s not so terribly odd but for me it is a no-brainer: Promptness, as in I am never late … never; there’s no good excuse or acceptable justification to make anyone wait for me because in the scheme of things, I am just not that important.  

I have a family member who is consistently late and by consistently I mean late for everything, even her daughter’s recent wedding (how is something like that even possible?); we like to joke around that she’s going to be late for her own funeral but all the joking in the world doesn’t erase how irritating it is to have to wait for her every single time and it’s gotten to the point that we have to fib a little and give her a 20 minute earlier meeting time knowing she’ll be 20 minutes late but will actually show up on time … lol … see how that works?

Sure, shit happens, like being unable to control the weather or traffic; maybe we can’t control it but we can anticipate it by checking our weather apps and bringing along a freaking umbrella or listening to the traffic report and leaving the house 15 to 20 minutes earlier than the other guy … the guy who doesn’t care if he shows up late and makes people wait. 

I’d rather be half an hour early for my doctor appointment than arrive 5 minutes late; at least I can get myself a cup of coffee, listen to the radio and relax in my car until it’s time to go in, even though chances are excellent the doctor will be running late!

In that case I am faced with the one thing I dislike more than being late and that, my friends, is called “The Hurry Up And Wait Syndrome”; man oh man, does that ever burn my biscuits – like an old Sunbeam Toaster Oven stuck at 475º!

NAR © 2023

Cyranny’s quickie!
Sunday’s Six Sentence Story Word Prompt!
Short Story

HORSE OF ANOTHER COLOR

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

“Eavesdropper, eh? Terrific odds. He’s a mudder and on this muddy track today, I’m taking that as a good sign. Just look at his lineage! Yep, Millie, I predict Eavesdropper’s the winner of Race 9” Harry Goldman boasted to his wife.

She brushed him off with a wave of her hand. “Whatever, Harry Houdini. Not one of your so-called magical predictions has paid off yet.”

“All right, Millie. I admit you got lucky today. What’s your secret? Been communicating with a horse whisperer?” Harry asked, annoyed at his wife’s winning streak.

“Oh, zip it, Harry! If it wasn’t for me, we’d be in the poor house. You haven’t won all day! Now be quiet and let me concentrate on my choice for this race.” Millie buried her nose in the racing form.

Harry heaved his portly body out of his seat. “Pardon moi, madame. I’m gonna place my bet on Eavesdropper. Then we’ll see who’s got horse sense!”

“Haha!! Horse sense! That’s a good one, Harry! You’ve been sittin’ on yours so long you’re now a horse’s ass!” Millie cackled. “Go on up. I’ll be along in a minute. I’m thinking here.” Snapping her Bazooka like a bubblegum queen, Millie studied the lineup for the next race, then clickety-clacked her way to the betting windows, her leopard print heels pinging off the metal steps like a kid’s cap gun. 

Bets placed, Harry and Millie settled in for the race. “I got a good feeling about this one, Millie!” Harry said excitedly, rubbing his hands together. 

The starting gun shot out and the announcer shouted “And they’re off!” 

Eavesdropper took the lead immediately and didn’t let go. Anxious, Harry sprang to his feet, urging his horse on. Suddenly, the horse in fourth place started picking up steam. Faster and faster he galloped, flying past the other horses, and at the last second crossed the finish line just before Eavesdropper. 

The announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “I can’t believe my eyes! What a shocker! The winner by a nose …. Muddy Waters!”  

Harry slumped into his seat, defeated. “I don’t freaking believe it! Of all the rotten luck! Eavesdropper was a shoe-in.”

Millie, however, was happy as a clam. “Well, I won again, Harry! Good old Muddy Waters brought it home for mama. I just knew it!” 

Harry stared at his wife, amazement mingled with contempt dripped from his creased brow. “Now wait just a damn minute! You won again?? Millie, I’m begging you! How’d you do it?” 

“Harry, calm yourself before you have a coronary! It’s really a no-brainer. Remember how you said the track was muddy today? When I saw the name ‘Muddy Waters’, I knew I had to go with him. I was inspired.” 

“Ok, I’ll give you that one, Millie. But how’d you pick all the other winners?”

Millie chewed her bottom lip, not sure if she wanted to reveal her secret. Finally she blurted out “It’s the colors! If I like what the jockey’s wearing, I’ll pick that horse.” 

Flabbergasted, Harry spewed out his beer and howled with laughter. “That’s your strategy? COLORS?!? Ok, Mrs. Crayola. Who you picking for the last race?” 

Millie looked around surreptitiously. Tapping the racing form with her fire engine red fingernail, she pointed to a name on the card. 

Harry was nonplussed by Millie’s revelation.

“HIM?? Rabelais? His color is ‘Eiffel Tower Brown’ – like a friggin’ turd! Are you sure that’s how you wanna go, Millie?” Harry was almost giddy, anticipating Millie’s long-awaited loss.

“Shh! Not so loud, Harry! People are listening! He’s from France and you know how I love my Frenchies! You could say I-FELL for them!” Millie elbowed Harry and laughed gleefully at her pun.

“Hardy-har-har!! Aren’t you the clever one?” Harry groaned. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but I give up, Millie. Go with your cockamamie hunch and bet it all on Rabelais!” 

Millie was already at the window, her chubby fist clutching her money, before Harry was even finished talking.

NAR © 2023

Join me today for
a very special
Name That Tune.
It’s a sure bet
you’ll have a blast!
https://rhythmsection.blog/

Short Story

WOUNDS REVISITED

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬
© Ayr/Gray

It was December 17, 1997 – one mere week after the birth of our first baby. This was to be a special time alone for Stephen and me; Christmas as a new little family.

Stephen set up the tree and brought down from the attic the decorations I collected over the years – heirloom pieces lovingly given to me by his mother. Inside the large box sat a smaller box; cradled inside was a treasured ornament belonging to Stephen’s great-grandmother, a delicate crystal snow globe passed from one generation to another.

The sudden, unexpected knock on the door quickly jarred our tranquil mood. On the threshold stood my parents, suitcases in hand. My heart sank. Perhaps it was wrong of me but I loved my husband’s mother more than my own.

Stephen showed my parents in and the dynamic in the room instantly changed.

My mother had the ineffable ability of showing up at the worst time – always unannounced, uninvited and unwelcome. I’ve often wondered if she knew how I felt about her surprise visits and didn’t care. Every event, momentous or ordinary, had to be about her.

Mother’s greetings were interwoven with recriminations about it being mid-morning and I was still in my nightgown. Then she swooped in, taking my sleeping son from my arms; disturbed, he wailed pathetically.

Turning abruptly to show my father his screaming grandson, the hem of mother’s coat swept against my cherished ornament, sending it flying.

It shattered; the jagged shards tore into my wintry heart.

NAR © 2023

The Unicorn Challenge-08/09/23

Short Story

MIXED SIGNALS

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN MESSAGES GET CROSSED

January 1, 2015

10:00 AM NY Time

To: Sophia

From: Paolo

Cara Sophia – I send you warmest greetings from Sicily and hope that you are well. Unfortunately, I have very bad news to share with you. There was a terrible fire in the guest cottage in Agrigento and all was lost. I know the idea of permanently relocating to Sicily and moving into the guest cottage has been your dream for many years; an undertaking of such magnitude is a huge change in one’s life and you were understandably hesitant to make a final decision. Sadly, now the house is destroyed and the decision has been made for you. Fortunately you still have your lovely home in New York. I hope sometime you will visit us for a few weeks at our home in Palermo. Ciao, cara – Paolo 

AT THE SAME TIME ON THAT CONVOLUTED DAY

January 1, 2015

10:00 AM NY Time

To: Paolo

From: Sophia

My dearest Paolo – After much thought and soul-searching, I have decided to accept your gracious offer to move into the beautiful guest cottage in Agrigento. The New York winters are getting progressively worse and I cannot stand another day here. I desperately need a change of scenery and a new life. I’m ready to become a permanent resident of Sicily! Luckily, I was able to sell my house quickly. The buyers would like to move into my house in two weeks which will give me enough time to pack my clothes, a few personal belongings and get everything in order for relocating. In anticipation of my move, I have already booked a flight to Palermo; my arrival date is two weeks from today. I will send you all the pertinent information in a separate email. Thank you again, my dear cousin, for the use of your guest cottage. I look forward to seeing you very soon in sunny Sicily. Ciao, caro – Sophia 

AT THE SAME TIME ON THAT VERY CONVOLUTED DAY

January 1, 2015

10:00 AM NY Time

To: Sophia

From: Angie

Hi Soph – How’s my favorite sister? I’ve got exciting news! I landed that great job I was angling for – the one at the music school near you. I know it’s been a while since you offered your guest room to me if I ever returned to New York so I’m hoping the offer still stands. You haven’t turned the room into a shrine to George Harrison, have you? LOL! Anyway, I sold my condo here in Boston and all I need to do is pack my stuff and buy a one way ticket to NY. I’ll be there in two weeks. Can’t wait to see you! It’ll be like old times hanging out together when we were teenagers. Talk to you soon, roomie! Love, your favorite sister, Angie 

PS: Brad moved to Seattle; singing at Starbucks and hoping to be discovered. He’s such a jerk! Oh well – his loss. 

AT THE SAME TIME ON THAT INCREDIBLY CONVOLUTED DAY

January 1, 2015

10:00 AM NY Time

To: Angie

From: Brad

Babe, I’m a total jackass! Forgive me, please!! Moving to Seattle was a really stupid idea. You tried to tell me and I wouldn’t listen. I miss you so much and this long distance relationship is never gonna work. What the hell was I thinking?? I’m coming home, Babe. I can’t wait to be back in Boston with you where I belong! I miss you and our life together. See you in two weeks. I love you, Babe! Brad xoxoxo ❤️😍🥰😘

NAR © 2023

Don’t get your wires crossed!
Meet me today for another
new segment in
The Rhythm Section!
There will be music
and maybe even cake!
https://rhythmsection.blog/

Short Story

BOOM SHAKALAKA

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

My parents fought just about all the time; from breakfast until Dad left for work they would argue about something, then they’d start in again after dinner. 

I’d hear them arguing while I did my homework; at night while trying to get to sleep I would hear other noises coming from my parent’s bedroom which were pretty loud but they definitely weren’t fighting and the next morning they were all smiles – go figure.  

Then one day my friend’s older sister told us we had to have a talk; she was 12 years old and already wearing a bra with a C cup so we paid attention. That was the infamous day we learned about S-E-X and boy, was that an eye-opener! 

I was a pretty curious and precocious child so after that talk I figured out darn quick what those noises were from Mom and Dad’s bedroom at night and why they were always so happy the next morning after one of their big arguments.  

Right then and there I promised myself when I got married I would fight with my husband as often as I could; I mean, if Mom and Dad were that happy every morning, there had to be something to this S-E-X thing after all.  

NAR © 2023

Sunday’s Six Sentence Story Word Prompt!
Short Story

LATHER, RINSE, REPEAT

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

It’s 4:30 AM.

She wakes and grabs a quick shower. The hair blower died weeks ago; no matter – it’s a luxury she can’t afford. She lets her hair dry naturally as she prepares a cup of instant coffee.

She rouses the kids by 5:00; they’re sleepy and cranky. We got no choice, she says, reminding them to brush their teeth before getting dressed. They walk eight blocks to her mother’s place. Breakfast is already on the stove – oatmeal, something hearty for their bellies.

She walks to the diner where she works, stopping at the dollar store to by laundry detergent. At the diner, she stashes her things in a locker, checks herself in the mirror and goes out to face the breakfast crowd.

It’s 6:00 AM.

She likes the breakfast people; they’re regular folk on their way to work … truckers, construction crews, nurses, bikers, plumbers, the gang from Home Depot. They stop in every morning and usually order the same things. They never talk about work. They pass around photos of their kids and grandkids, compare notes on last night’s game, talk about that new movie they hope to catch. Who got engaged, who’s graduating, who’s going on vacation … ordinary everyday stuff people talk about. They laugh heartily and it’s contagious. She’s on a first name basis with most of them. They’re creatures of habit and there’s something very comforting to her about that. Breakfast is her busiest shift; she doesn’t mind. It’s fast, seamless and exciting. These people are the salt of the earth. The best tippers.

There are always a few stragglers between breakfast and lunch but it’s never busy and she’s got some downtime. That’s when she writes – stories, poems, even some songs – wishful scribbles on a notepad. Maybe she’ll be famous someday. Possibly. Probably not. Pipe dreams. She remembers hearing someone say ‘you’ll miss every shot you don’t take’. She liked that and scribbled it on her pad..

It’s 11:00 AM.

Time for the lunch crowd. She’s not a fan of many of the people who come for lunch except for the folks in “The Big Apple for the first time all the way from Des Moines and would you mind taking our picture?” The kids all grin displaying goofy toothless smiles and press their noses up against the window to wave at passers-by. The parents ask if she knows how to get to the museum – the one with the dinosaur bones – and “that coffee shop from Seinfeld” and they laugh self-consciously at their naïve questions. She overhears them talking excitedly about going to the wax museum after lunch and next time they’ll have to come at Christmas “to see the tree”.

Lunchtime brings in the slick salesmen too cheap to go to a real restaurant; they talk nonstop, their prospective clients pretending to be interested but they know BS when they hear it. Over at the corner table in the rear section of the diner is the businessman having a luncheon liaison with his secretary. The man is much too suave and the woman much too impressionable. She wants to scream at that hopeful, hapless woman to “open your eyes and run like hell; he’s only going to use you and hurt you!” but keeps her mouth shut. She can’t afford to lose this job.

Then there’s a different breed of men all together, the ones who drink martinis before, during and after lunch, the ones who think it’s perfectly acceptable to call her “Brown Sugar”. She cringes. They are flabby and pasty and unattractive with Brylcreemed hair, fat lips and sweaty hands. They’re the ones who cop a cheap feel, slide their fingers up her skirt, try to stick a tongue in her ear. She manages to tap dance around the slithering slugs but they are determined and will be back again tomorrow. She’s perpetually afraid some day one of them will corner her in the bathroom. That’s when she’ll scream, job or not.

In the center of the dining room are the loud, orange-haired twin sisters from Kmart who chain smoke and order black coffee, wipe their teeth with a napkin and constantly re-apply bright red lipstick, grinning into a beat up old compact found on the bottom of a cheap purse. One always has a grease stain on her blouse and they laugh raucously. They head back to work after leaving cigarette butts in the coffee cups, a pile of greasy, lipstick-stained napkins and a shitty tip.

Slowly the place empties; time to clean up the messes left behind.

It’s 6:00 PM.

She’s been at the diner for 12 hours, a regular day for her. The usuals start arriving for dinner, many of them returnees from breakfast. It’s quitting time for her. Sometimes, if she’s lucky, she can pack up a doggie bag; Bart, the day manager, is good about letting her take home leftovers. Her babies can have real hamburgers with tasty fries for dinner. She retrieves her stuff from the locker and starts the walk back to her mother’s place.

The kids devour the burgers and fries, giggling and chattering like little chipmunks. She hugs her mother, scoops up the kids and walks the eight blocks home. It’s bath night, all three kiddos together in the tub. Can’t waste water or time. She reminds them to brush their teeth before getting into bed. She reads one story, then tucks them in and kisses their foreheads.

She gets the laundry together, grabs some quarters from the jar in the kitchen, locks her apartment door behind her and goes down to the shared laundry room in the basement of her building. She prays the kids don’t wake up; she can’t leave the laundry unsupervised – someone would steal her clothes for sure. She makes a mental note to look for a baby intercom at the dollar store. While the clothes dry she jots down wishful scribbles on her notepad. Ninety minutes later the laundry’s done and she heads back up to her babies.

It’s 11:00 PM.

She folds the clean clothes, piles them neatly in the laundry basket, gets undressed and stares at her body in the mirror. She thinks again about becoming an exotic dancer. She has a friend named Crystal who makes good money stripping. Crystal gets to spend time with her kids; she even bought a nice Christmas tree last year and presents to put under it. Maybe she should give Crystal a call.

She slips a cotton nightgown over her head and climbs into bed, exhausted.

Lather, rinse, repeat. Tomorrow she gets to do it all over again.

It’s 11:45 PM.

NAR © 2023

I hope you’ll join me today
In The Groove, kids.
It’s all brand spanking new!
https://rhythmsection.blog/

Short Story

THE WARMTH OF THE SUN

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬
Me, 7 months old

When I was an infant, my parents decided our small apartment in Manhattan was no place to raise two little daughters. The following day they set off on their search for a house in The Bronx. Back then living in The Bronx was a lot different than it is now. Crime was practically nonexistent; drug dealers weren’t openly operating out of school playgrounds, storefronts weren’t gated and padlocked and families were not shattered by drive-by shootings.

The Bronx was like a country village with farms dotting the neighborhoods of Baychester, Kingsbridge, Morrisania, Riverdale and others. People raised sheep, goats and chickens. Gardens were abundant with homegrown fruit and vegetables. It was a different world, a far cry from the hustle and bustle of Manhattan. Life was peaceful.

My parents bought a new semi-attached two family house spacious enough for the four of us and my maternal grandparents. We had a nice piece of corner property and a large backyard perfect for my grandfather’s grapevines and fruit trees and my mother’s vegetable garden.

My grandmother was a sickly woman, having been ill since my mother was only 12 years old. Nonna was not quite bedridden but spent a fair amount of time inside in bed or looking out the window. My mother was her caregiver; when the weather was nice, she would wrap a blanket around Nonna, making her comfortable in a lounge chair in the backyard.

Nonna’s ‘job‘ was to rock my carriage as I napped outside. Since she was not strong enough to carry me, my grandmother delighted in being able to help my mother in this small way. Nonna relished being outside in our quiet backyard watching my grandfather tending the garden; the warmth of the sun on her frail body renewed her spirit and magically brought a glow back to her face.

It was the first Labor Day in our new home and I napped in my baby carriage while Nonna sat in her chair gently rocking me. I began to stir and when I opened my eyes, I saw my grandmother’s smiling face looking down at me. Her doe-like eyes twinkled as she sang an old Italian lullaby, “Ninna Ninna”.

It may be difficult to comprehend that a little one just seven months of age could have such clear and distinct memories. I can recall my grandmother’s happy face smiling at me, her dark brown eyes shining. The poignant song and Nonna’s expressive voice always had a mysterious way of calming me and I would drift back to sleep. Those days in our peaceful backyard are tenderly stored in my mind.

My grandmother passed away six years later; the special bond we shared is something I will treasure forever.

NAR © 2023

FOWC with Fandango — Shatter
Short Story

BONES

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬
© Dale Rogerson

Did you ever experience weather so dry that the ground and air crackled and all you could think about was bones … the ones you found buried in Vern Wilson’s barn that drought summer seventeen years ago?

That’s how it was for me and my friends Bucky Berringer and Grady McCallister.

They was human bones, alright, and we covered ‘em up right quick before ol’ Vern caught us.

Weatherman said rain’s a-comin’. Pappy’s fields are shrivelin’ up awful. We need us some good rain, days upon days of rain, but all we’re seein’ is damn fire bolts makin’ us twitch.

NAR © 2023
100 Words

1 September 2023

Short Story

CARE FOR A CUPPA?

Nancy's Notes 🖊️♬

Oh, good morning! Sorry, I didn’t see you there till just now. Do you know who I am? I come into your homes multiple times each week. You’ve just never seen me look quite like this before.

I’m heading out to share coffee with my friend. Why not keep me company along the way?

You know, it’s funny how things happen. If you’re lucky, you go through life happy and content, grateful for the many blessings you have. Life may not be a whirlwind of excitement but it’s still life and I’m glad to be living it, especially since I have a dear friend to share things with. Sure, we may be creeping up on OBS (Old Bat Status) but we don’t care; life truly is what you make it!

It all began months ago when we crossed paths in this very location and the more we got to know one another, the more we liked each other. We discovered we have a lot in common. As time went by and we started peeling back more layers, we realized the similarities between us were uncanny. We jokingly say it’s like being “separated at birth”.

My friend and I each have a wonderful hubby, two terrific sons and four grandchildren we’re crazy about. We have a handful of good friends and we’re lucky to be doing the things we really enjoy:
writing {poetry for her and stories for me}, cooking, gardening, walking, listening to music and watching a little TV. We love the show, Granchester and like Will but wish Sydney would come back, you know?

Let’s see; we both wear glasses (although I seem to have misplaced mine today). We enjoy feeding the birds in our yards. We complain about doctors and think Seinfeld is the funniest show ever. We won’t wear clothes without pockets and prefer scrambled eggs cooked the French way. We love fresh burrata, watching sports, Bobby Darin and anchovies.

We relish the silence but our minds are constantly in the groove to the soundtrack of life; we are, as we like to say, “cautious worriers“. She’s also a wiz at that computer imaging thingy she does. What she can do with people is amazing; sometimes it just makes us laugh and laugh!

We’re comfy as two old peas in a pod. Being friends is as relaxed as sharing a warm slice of freshly baked sourdough bread, laughing at something funny one of us said.

Why, we even call each other “sis”; now, ain’t that a kick in the head!

We do have our differences, though: I love liver and she can’t stand it and she loves spicy mustard while I prefer mild. We enjoy working on puzzles – crossword for me, jigsaw for her. And she’s got a couple of inches on me.

Oh, look! Here she comes now! I wonder, can you recognize her from where you are? Who’s my friend?

Morning, sis! I was just chatting with a couple hundred of our WordPress friends. Right you are – it is a small world. Care for a cuppa? Here ya go, luv, just the way we like it. Cheers!

NAR © 2023