My future self came and told me how terrible and lonely his life was. I chose another path, which put us both out of our misery.
Quotable 126
The writer who possesses the creative gift owns something of which he is not always master.
– Charlotte Brontë
haiku 238
new blanket
keeps the neighbors’ cat
warm on our porch
#quikfic 25
When the sun went down, her clothes came off. Night after night, I sketched her in the darkness until I finally got it right.
Fiction: Sock Hop
Kevin swallowed a mouthful of potato and said, “So, Dad, how was work today?”
Hugh Nelson stopped scooping up his peas and sighed. “Y’know, Son, I don’t really want to talk about it tonight. It’s just the same old nonsense from the same people. Tell me about your day instead.”
“Well, Mr. Mackenzie told me that when Vernon Morgan retires next month, he’s moving Pete Cooper up to the number two spot.” He looked around the table at his family and grinned. “And I will be the new paint department manager.”
“Oh, how wonderful,” Kevin’s mother, Betty, said.
“Good for you, Kevin,” said sister Karen.
Hugh nodded. “Now that’s the kind of office talk I want to hear around this dinner table. Congratulations, Kevin. That’s a quick promotion as young as you are, but I know you’ve earned it. You’ve proved your work ethic at the hardware store, and it’s paying off.”
“It sure is,” Kevin agreed. “With the raise I’m going to get, I can afford to buy a nice little house and start out on my own now.”
“Well, that’s just fine,” Hugh said. “Start living the American dream.”
Karen eyed her brother mischievously across the table. “And does that dream include Tina?”
Quotable 125
Writing well means never having to say, “I guess you had to be there.”
– Jef Mallett
haiku 237
94th birthday –
Grandpa asks again
who I am
#quikfic 24
Tina had to stay after school again today. She simply won’t quit repeating what you said when the hammer hit your thumb.
Fiction: Darkening Doors
The lady of the house opened the white front door to her modest bungalow-style home. On the doorstep stood a middle-aged man in a plain suit. She recognized him from his signs.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “I am Alfred Samiel. I am visiting every home in the district which I hope to serve in the legislature. I would like to take just a few moments to tell you where I stand on the important issues we face.”
She scowled at him.
“I know your stands on the issues. I don’t know how you can say any of that crap. You’re disgusting. You’ll never get my vote. I hope to God you don’t get elected.”
She slammed the door on him, and he heard something fall from a shelf inside.
Samiel stared hatefully at the closed door, silently fuming. None of the well-intentioned warnings had prepared him for the fact of rejection. He poured out his anger and stepped down from the porch, moving on to the next house.
He reminded himself that it didn’t matter if he was not loved. All that mattered was making a good effort. When election day came, he was certain he would be elected – despite the woman’s prayer to the contrary: God wasn’t running a candidate for office.
Behind him, the white door now bore Samiel’s silhouette. The homeowner would later discover that paint would not adhere to it.