Category: Short Story

Short Story

THE CHOSEN

Nancy's Notes πŸ–ŠοΈβ™¬

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 β€˜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 β€˜hot dogs’ filled with whipped cream that we all know as Devil Dogs.

NAR Β© 2023

Sunday’s Six Sentence Story Word Prompt!
Short Story

HONEYSUCKLE AND PROVOLONE

Nancy's Notes πŸ–ŠοΈβ™¬

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 β€œto die for”, as my Aunt Carmella always says.Β 

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.Β β€œWelcome to Deluca’s Salumeria. May I help you with something, miss?” [Smooth, right? Not to mention original!]Β 

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. 

β€œEverything 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. 

β€œNo 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. β€œHow 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 β€œYou have a deal, Mr…..” 

β€œDeluca. Bruno Deluca. And you are…..?” 

She extended a delicate porcelain hand. β€œRowan McCourt. Pleased to meet you, Bruno.”

β€œRowan, eh? That’s a lovely name. What does it mean?” 

Tentatively toying with her hair she said β€œLittle Red-haired One. And what does Bruno mean?” 

I shrugged and matter-of-factly stated β€œBrown” and we both burst out laughing! 

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

β€œOh, no Bruno! This is too much! I couldn’t possibly…..!” 

β€œGo! 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.

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

She browsed for a minute. β€œThat looks incredible! What is it?” 

β€œThat’s lasagna – sheets of wide pasta layered with ricotta, mozzarella, grated Parmigiano Reggiano cheese, sauteΓ¨d 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?” 

β€œEnough for a few portions, please” Rowan replied. Her smile was radiant.

β€œAh, leftovers. You remembered!” I said, smiling back. 

β€œActually, Bruno, I was hoping you would join me for dinner tonight.”

It took me a second to remember to breath. β€œI’d love to” I whispered while inside I was shouting β€œYES! I’d love to!” 

β€œWonderful! 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.

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

NAR Β©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?
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Short Story

WITHOUT A TRACE

Nancy's Notes πŸ–ŠοΈβ™¬
Β© 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 Β© 2023
250 Words

The Unicorn Challenge-22/09/23
Short Story

THE NIGHT STALKER

Nancy's Notes πŸ–ŠοΈβ™¬

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 β€œWhat 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.

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

β€œGRLBRTH! 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.

β€œYou 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
Β© NAR

NAR Β© 2023

The Friday Reminder and Prompt for #SoCS Sept. 16, 2023
FOWC with Fandango β€” 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!
πŸŽ‚
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Short Story

VISUAL VERSE

Nancy's Notes πŸ–ŠοΈβ™¬

An ekphrastic vignette written for the last issue ofΒ Visual Verse.Β 

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 Β© 2023

Short Story

SEPTEMBER HEATWAVE

Nancy's Notes πŸ–ŠοΈβ™¬

“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 Β© 2023

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Short Story

BURN MY BISCUITS

Nancy's Notes πŸ–ŠοΈβ™¬

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 β€œThe Hurry Up And Wait Syndrome”; man oh man, does that ever burn my biscuits – like an old Sunbeam Toaster Oven stuck at 475ΒΊ!

NAR Β© 2023

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

HORSE OF ANOTHER COLOR

Nancy's Notes πŸ–ŠοΈβ™¬

“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. β€œWhatever, Harry Houdini. Not one of your so-called magical predictions has paid off yet.”

β€œAll 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.

β€œOh, 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. β€œPardon moi, madame. I’m gonna place my bet on Eavesdropper. Then we’ll see who’s got horse sense!”

β€œHaha!! 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. β€œGo 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. β€œI got a good feeling about this one, Millie!” Harry said excitedly, rubbing his hands together. 

The starting gun shot out and the announcer shouted β€œAnd 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.Β 

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

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

Millie, however, was happy as a clam. β€œWell, 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. β€œNow wait just a damn minute! You won again?? Millie, I’m begging you! How’d you do it?” 

β€œHarry, 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 β€˜Muddy Waters’, I knew I had to go with him. I was inspired.” 

β€œOk, 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 β€œIt’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. β€œThat’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.Β 

Harry was nonplussed by Millie’s revelation.

β€œHIM?? Rabelais? His color is β€˜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.

β€œShh! 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.

β€œHardy-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 Β© 2023

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Name That Tune.
It’s a sure bet
you’ll have a blast!
https://rhythmsection.blog/

Short Story

WOUNDS REVISITED

Nancy's Notes πŸ–ŠοΈβ™¬
Β© 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 Β© 2023

The Unicorn Challenge-08/09/23

Short Story

MIXED SIGNALS

Nancy's Notes πŸ–ŠοΈβ™¬

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 ❀️😍πŸ₯°πŸ˜˜

NAR Β© 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 πŸ–ŠοΈβ™¬

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 wereΒ thatΒ happy every morning, there had to be something to this S-E-X thing after all.Β Β 

NAR Β© 2023

Sunday’s Six Sentence Story Word Prompt!
Short Story

LATHER, RINSE, REPEAT

Nancy's Notes πŸ–ŠοΈβ™¬

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 naΓ―ve 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 Β© 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 πŸ–ŠοΈβ™¬
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 Β© 2023

FOWC with Fandango β€” Shatter
Short Story

BONES

Nancy's Notes πŸ–ŠοΈβ™¬
Β© 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 β€˜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 Β© 2023
100 Words

1 September 2023