Subtlety - An essay

 SUBTLETY

 

Rarely, if ever, has subtlety been brought up as a topic of discussion during our writing group meetings. I haven't come across subtlety in all the books I've read on writing.  Nevertheless, subtlety underlies much in writing consciously or otherwise. A few of these areas are sensitivity, foreshadowing, and description.

 

People are sensitive to ethnic and racial issues. In the political arena, it is all too prevalent. Writers don't wish to offend their readers, or at least most writers. Thus, subtlety is employed to convey those touchy points. It is difficult to delicately write historical fiction that depicts horrible treatment of people like the Blacks and the Indians. As we move up the time scale to contemporary times, those historical treatments that were the way of life become xenophobic and racist in their very mention. Writing a black character as dumb and lazy stereotypes blacks are all alike or if an Indian is a lazy drunk, all Indians are portrayed as drunks and lazy. Writing in that style isn't going to fly in today's world. Not without alienating a segment of readership.  No amount of subtlety will mask such concepts or maybe subtlety can. Many writers sidestep and omit possible offense from their writings by not writing about them.

 

They don't have to avoid writing on sensitivity issues if they deploy nuance to their character development. For instance, ignorance and stupidity are two widely different things. Many people equate the two as the same, and because a person isn’t aware of something, they are stupid. Generally, characters, real and imagined, who think this way are bullies who go by many names such as rednecks, skinheads, bloods, and gangbangers. Where in this scenario can subtlety be used? In the character arc.

 

People in real life don't change drastically at a moment's notice, epiphanies aside. In writing, an author exaggerates the traits of a bully or a victim to strengthen the emotional response sought. The writer builds subtle markers in character arcs to bring the characters back in line, regain the normal, or find a new normal.

 

Writing events in a story that move the characters along their arcs entails foreshadowing. In my mind, foreshadowing is where the reader derives the most joy from the story. Hardly is anything more gratifying to the reader than the moment when a subtle foreshadow is fulfilled.  Several mechanisms can be used for foreshadowing, some more obvious than others. Probably the most obvious and best known to writers is Chekhov's gun.

 

From Wikipedia:

"Chekhov's gun (Chekhov's rifle, Russian: Чеховское ружьё) is a dramatic principle that states that every element in a story must be necessary, and irrelevant elements should be removed. Elements should not appear to make "false promises" by never coming into play." 

 

From <https://www.bing.com/search?q=Chekov%27s+gun&form=ANNTH1&refig=c86bd283aa124854b28c927898fd6327>

 

One false promise is to introduce a weapon and never use it. Others are introducing an arsonist who never burns anything down, a womanizer who never dates, or a murderer who never kills anyone, and the list goes on.

 

Tension and or suspense are also the creations of foreshadowing. When the reader picks up on a subtle hint that may turn the story on its head, save the day for the protagonist or spell their doom, hope at what was hinted will or will not happen. We all like to be right. A foreshadow harbors in the back of the mind, and finally, the writer brings it out, the reader exclaims, "I knew it, I knew it!" It's a surprise. Not the kind of surprise like, "Where did that come from?", but more like, "Thank goodness, I was starting to worry."

 

The more subtle the foreshadowing is, the more satisfying for the reader when fulfilled. An excellent treatment for foreshadowing can be found in many 'how to' writing books. I particularly enjoyed studying Structuring your Novel Essential Keys for writing an outstanding story by K.M. Weiland. K.M. Weiland - Author of Historical and Speculative Fiction (kmweiland.com)

 

I think a concerted effort is required to use subtlety in foreshadowing. The writer must give the readers a certain amount of credit to pick up on veiled foreshadowing.

 

To round out the topic of today is subtlety in description. The writer wants the reader to visualize, to feel, to equate, and emote. Much like foreshadowing, the description shouldn't be force-fed, serving only to bog down the story or feel contrived. Subtlety can rule. There is no reason to reveal the color of the protagonist's hair until pertinent to the plot. Rather than having her look in the mirror and describe her hair, she can hope whoever is after her will not recognize the fresh dye job as she gathers loose blond strands from the sink to flush down the toilet. A detective may look at shoes in a closet and declare the man they seek is pigeon-toed by the wear of the soles. If the readers don't know what pigeon-toed is, they can look it up and learn a new thing.

 

Being subtle can only carry so far. Difficult for the writer to be delicate in describing a person being run through with a sword or the effect of a car slamming into a hundred-year-old Oak tree at sixty miles an hour. Those are defining events and not for finesse. Other than those stark moments in description like a nuclear bomb going off, subtlety is equally enjoyed by the reader.

 

Characters have roles to play. Many readers, I submit, most readers, like to picture a character of their own design. If the writer wants the storyline's purpose to describe a character in a certain way, the more subtle the depiction is, the more enjoyable the reading.

 

As writers, we carry a heightened awareness of the mechanisms used to convey a good story. Because of this awareness, the author/reader appreciates a well-written story. On the other hand, by reading many stories, readers conclude what they enjoy without being aware of the tools the writer deploys. Thus, readers develop a stable of favorite authors.

 

The use of subtlety will enhance and enrichen any story.

by Emmett J Hall 

Why did I write RUNAWAY

 

An interesting aspect to writing a novel that I hadn't anticipated when I wrote RUNAWAY is to be asked, Why did I write it? What is the message, the meaning?

The answer bears a bit of background before answering. To start, I have taken a series of creative writing classes at several different community colleges over the years. The story RUNAWAY was a short story written for one of those classes in the late 1970s. 

The teacher wanted it expanded. He had ideas he wanted me to explore, but time ran out. I had no design other than to write an interesting story for a class assignment. The years ticked away. People I let read the story wanted it expanded.

Finally, after retirement and submitting my story to a new writers group I was checking out. They critiqued the heck out of it. The overall censuses were they wanted it expanded. I will admit it. I was afraid. I didn't know what to do to create a novel. What- a chapter book. A daunting undertaking.  

Nevertheless, I pushed on. I started reading how-to books, Dean Koontz, Steven King,  K.M. Weiland, and others while I continued to write. I learned new concepts and when I went back to check my writing I found I was a bit of a natural for story creation and didn't require much in the way of fixing plot, character arcs, or world-building. My Achilles heel was and is still grammar, fixable if the bones are good. 

I think all novelists have some idea of what the purpose of their book is going to be about. Be that of a brain twister like mystery, or a shocker as in horror or tension ladened like in a thriller. My story is historical fiction set in 1936. It has been compared to a cross between John Steinbeck and Dashiell Hammond. I think of it as more Gulliver's travels without the fantasy part. Yet, the story has tragedy, sacrifice, murder, and mentorship for a fifteen-year-old forced to grow up quickly. 

Time to answer the questions. Why,  what are the purpose and message? The overlying theme was things are not as they always seem. Bad people have good traits, good people have conflicts, and evil people have their reasons. For a fifteen-year-old, naïve and vulnerable, a mentor for good can be important. For a teenager that reads this, I hope the takeaway is - to have patience. The young tend to knee-jerk reactions. My boy in this story suffers from this. 

Did I plan this? Yes and no. I had these life lessons I wanted to weave into the story in the back of my mind, and they fleshed out on the page as I wrote.  For the most part, I had young adults in mind as I wrote, but is good reading for parents as well for most of the concepts can be applied to raising their children. 

What good is a meaningful message unless delivered in an engaging manner?  A subjective answer. The texture of the period is well put. The internal and external dialogues revealing and believable. A fellow writer in my writers' group commented my writing is like the Norman Rockwell of literature. There, so much for horn tooting. You can read the story description by searching Emmett J Hall on Amazon. 

SWEET

Flour, yeast, salt, egg or two and sugar

Brings meaning to the baker's labor

Add milk or cream and knead it all vigorously.

Could add some chocolate, butterscotch, but no vinegar,

For it is to delight the palette with flavor.

That's what the baker gets with the right amount of sugar.

Tis sweet, all the variations, from cookies to party favors

That the baker strives for is just for pleasure

As he applies his trade with passion vigorously.

He turns to breads that he might find to be purer

But let the partaker be the juror

For sweetness eludes when he uses no sugar.

The pans are ready waiting for the baker's scraper, 

The vat is ready, the oil is hot ready for batter drops

As the Baker hums to the sizzle vigorously.

The bell rings over the cooker

The baker removes the concoction to savor

As the test of tongue detects the right degree of sugar

Thus springing into a dance of satisfaction with vigor.

Murder in Hawaii - Flash Fiction

This picture prompt was presented online for a flash fiction weekly that used to be on Google+. I thought I would have some fun with a mystery genre story. Especially, in a short story, this is not my usual writing. If Hawaii has phone booths like this or not, I don't know.  I never paid any attention to phone booths when I was there in the 1970's. I show it because it was the prompt presented and I hope you enjoy the short story that came from it.

Emmett

Murder in Hawaii

Burned out security lamps and lack of street lights permitted deep shadows from the half-moon low in the sky to envelope the industrial park.  Two bulbs of three were burned out in the phone booth Second Class Yeoman Ralph Stagg slipped into. He was dimly lit in it on the perimeter of the park as Phil Meeks stood on the other side of the glass. 

Ralph was perturbed, slamming the phone into its cradle as the glass exploded.  First the door, then the back followed by the crack of a muzzle blast.  Ralph slammed open the door extinguishing the single bulb. When he emerged, Phil fell with his life’s blood flooding from his throat onto the cracks in brown/gray sidewalk.  A rancid odor wafted up as his bowels relaxed.  Ralph ran for the deepest shadows and made his way back to his car and made his way back to Pearl Harbor’s Hotel piers, where his ship was tied up.

#

  

It had been three months since Sammy had reported aboard the USS Myercord. He and Ralph had become fast friends. “Did you hear about Phil Meeks?” Sammy asked. “Isn’t he a good friend of yours?”

                Ralph wiped the sweat from his forehead with the cuff of his dungaree sleeve and donned his ship’s ball cap.  "Phil was. I left that witch Simmons last week," Ralph said.

“What’s Crystal Simmons got to do with what happened to Phil?"

“I think it’s tied in,” Ralph continued. “I called it quits between us, Phil was with me at the time. I figured she’d throw less of a tizzy if someone was with me when I told her.  I think Crystal stole half our stash.  She threatened me.  She said she'd tell my wife if I left her.  I called our supplier and told them we were short.”

“What did he say about it?”

“He said to call him back from the booth in the industrial quarter.  I did, and Phil waited outside.  The supplier was pissed and told me we would be held accountable for twenty G’s of the product.  I told him to pound sand.  That's when the shot came and killed Phil.”  Ralph pulled off his ball cap and wiped his brow again.  "I have to meet with the supplier tonight to make a payment.  Frankly, I'm nervous.  What if it was him that killed Phil?"

Sammy nodded.  "You need someone to watch your back. I'll go with you tonight.  It's time you cut me in.  Besides, I told you I have contacts on the Samuel Gompers.  A Destroyer Tenders has a lot of need for the product.  I'll bet we can make up your deficient quick and get you in good with your supplier… oh, what's his name?"

“I’ll let you know by knock-off.”  Turning, Ralph headed below decks.

Sammy climbed up to the oh-one (01) level and placed a call.

"Naval Criminal Investigative Services, how may I direct your call?"  The voice asked Sammy. 

"Put me through to Joyce Fellows, please."  He told Joyce to look into a Crystal Simmons and that Phil Meeks was with Ralph when shot last night.  “Put surveillance on us tonight, Ralph is going to take me to his supplier.  Wait until we leave before arresting the man.” 

“Got it. By the way, Sam, Meeks was killed with a .308 rifle,” she said.   

In the meeting with the supplier, terms were renegotiated, and more rock-cocaine and two keys of Mary Jane delivered.  Ralph was elated and downed three Primos, the sailor’s beer of choice in the early 1970s. Sammy drove.   "Sammy, you’re an all right guy.  Come on over for dinner.  Karen's a great cook.  I'd like you to meet her."

After dinner, Sammy asked Karen if she would sit and visit but she demurred to the kitchen to clean up.  The hardline to her lips and short, curt one-word responses led Sammy to think she didn’t appreciate being blindsided by a guest for dinner or something else was going on between her and Ralph. Sammy didn’t pursue the request.

Ralph wanted to show off his Colt .357 Python.  In the bedroom closet, Ralph opened up a handgun safe and pulled the chrome-ribbed revolver from it, handed it to Sammy who affectionately sighted the gun in the air and gave it back. “Nice.” He noticed a rifle propped up in the corner.  "What’s that?"  Sammy asked. 

Ralph reached back and pulled the long-gun out. “I used it for hunting Boar in Arizona.” 

Sammy took it, looked over the weapon, and obliquely smelled the barrel before handing it back. It was a .308 Browning.  "Nice, too bad there's nothing to hunt with that in Hawaii."

The next morning, Sammy called Fellows.  He learned the supplier of drugs had been booked.  Crystal was located and offered nothing.  “I found a .308 at Ralphs. Get a warrant. Seize it to test as the murder weapon of Meeks. Issue a warrant for the arrest of Ralph for intent to distribute drugs. The drugs are in the trunk of his car, be sure to include that in the warrant.”

At two P.M., Sammy got a text.  Gun seized, no one home. Tested. Is the murder weapon.  Ralph in custody - JF.  

#

When Karen opened the door, she looked surprised.  "May I come in?" Sammy asked.  She opened the door.  Sammy sat in a chair, and she planted herself on the couch.  "Karen, I'll get right to the point.  Did you know Ralph had a girlfriend by the name of Tiffany?"

Karen turned red, “What, I only knew about Crystal.”

His baiting her with a false name worked. Sammy pressed, "Why would you try and shoot Ralph when he broke it off with Crystal a week ago."

“I didn’t know he broke it off.”  Karen sighed deflated.  “If I’d known, I wouldn't have tried to shoot him.”

"Karen - you killed a man with that shot."  Her face dropped in astonishment.  Sammy lifted her from the sofa and turned her gently as he put on the cuffs.  "Karen Staggs, you're under arrest for the wrongful death of Phil Meeks.  

Debut Novel 'RUNAWAY' Available in Paperback and ebook

Forty years in the making.

Wow, that sounds like a really long time but not so much so.  I wrote a short story in 1979 called 'Forced Growth' for a creative writing class that the teacher, friends, and family wanted me to expand on.

In 2016, after finally retiring for the third time, I set out to do that very thing.  I have to admit the toughest thing about writing this book, and there were some tough times, was deciding on the final title.

I thought I started with a solid foundation of a good short story that I received an A grade. When I joined the Kitsap Writers Group and submitted the story for critique, I was in for an enlightening. The story was great and the writing sucked.

To make a long story short, think of just about everything a writer could do wrong from head-hopping to data dumping, and telling not showing and I had it. After brutal, but loving nurturing the group set me on the path.

As I wrote the book, I studied and read how-to books from Sol Stein to Stephen King and plot structures and character arcs and on and on.  Then as I went along I bounced my story against what was supposed to be a component of a good story and I wasn't doing to bad. Lending me to think I had a least a natural bent for storytelling that needed honing.  The writer's group provided the stone upon which I rubbed my head on, on a monthly basis. I appreciated their patience and input more than I can express.  I love them all.

Emmett J Hall

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B083G9156T

SANDRA THE VANGUARD - Flash Fiction

As ofttimes would have it, I'm presented with a picture prompt that I have to scratch my head for an idea to make a story of it.  Animals and nature are ripe for conflict. I came up for the idea when I thought back on a time when I was out 4-wheeling and came across a hoard of Ladybugs much like I depict the ticks in this story. Ladybugs are cute and colorful but when found in the forest in numbers like I have in this story is a bit disconcerting. I wasn't afraid, yet, I felt a high degree of uneasiness. 

Another component of this story is the teapot. To incorporate that I had to elevate the spider's intelligence with a tad bit of personification. It gives the story a slight fantasy feel to it, or maybe a lot. You'll note there is no dialogue as we know it because that isn't the way spiders communicate. 

Rose Tursi at www.tursiart.com

SANDRA THE VANGUARD

            Martha saw them first.  A massive swarm of ticks moving along the forest bed like lava, slow and invasive.  The ticks moved up the sides of trees, covering boulders, turning bushes black with their bodies.  They were smart also, swarming over a downed log to cross a creek. Martha estimated their numbers to be that of a large deer, thousands, tens of thousands of the ticks.

            The little black dots were terrifying and yet succulent looking. Martha swung on her thread and scampered over the bushes and trees until she reached the Great Tree, the home of her and her kind.  Sandra had to be told. If left undealt with the ticks would consume them all.

#

            Sandra was found in the center of her high web.  She had a favorite spot to catch fliers.  Fliers were her favorite meal. As the leader of Great Tree, no one impinged upon her place. 

            Martha reached the bottom of Sandra’s web and strummed a pair of silken threads.  Sandra whirled around at the first vibration and fixed her eyes on Martha.  Their language was in vibrations and imperviable tones.

            Sandra understood the gravity and opportunity at the same time. She instructed Martha to string a thread through all the webs around Great Tree and find her at the base where the mesquite nearly touched.  Sandra would take the end of Martha’s thread there.

            By the time Martha had finished her task, it was dark. All the spiders had retired for the night, but she did as she was told and found Sandra weaving a massive web at the base of Great Tree.

            Sandra tied off the end of the thread and asked Martha to help complete the work of the web and retire for the night.  Sandra would transmit instructions in the morning to all their kind.

            As the first rays of light rose in the East, spiders were taking their places in their webs. Sandra waited until they had all settled in and played her message on the strand of silken thread that touched all the webs.

#

Martha had gone to check on the progress of the ticks.  They were close.  In an hour, they would be at Great Tree.  A sense of impending doom washed over her as she scurried back to report to Sandra.

            Sandra didn’t appear to be the least bit perplexed over the invasion coming.  She instructed Martha to fix a pot of tea and bring it to her as she dangled near the bottom of her web that fully encompassed Great Tree. 

            The swarm of ticks approached.  A fat bulging tick lead the horde.  He leaped from a bush and landed on the web below Sandra. 

            Would you care for some tea? Sandra strummed.

            The tick bared his fishhook like barbs in his hypostome. 

            From Martha’s assigned place, her heart nearly stopped at the site of the tick’s show of ferocity and the horde behind him lining up to leap upon Sandra.  Martha could practically feel the chelicerae cutting into her flesh, the barbs hooking on, and the life essence being sucked from her body.  Only her trust in Sandra kept her from fleeing.

            Sandra took a sip of her tea.  Very well, bring it on!  She plucked a tune on her web and scurried to the top of it.

            Martha waited as instructed until the ticks had saturated the web all around Great Tree.  The base of the tree was a black writhing mess as the ticks tangled up in the webbing.

            Stuck to the sticky strand, the fat tick was buried in the horde.  Too bad, Sandra had her heart set on that one.  But the nearest would do.

            Sandra struck with lightning speed. Injecting the nearest tick to approach her with her venom.  It instantly paralyzed.  Martha and the rest of the spiders took the cue and dropped from the limbs above onto the ticks rendering them immobile one after another. 

            The ticks were frustrated with spiders all over their backsides, and although they outnumbered the spiders three to one the ticks quickly succumbed to the spider’s poison. Not a spider was lost to the hoard.

             After wrapping the hideous little tick creatures in sticky silk, the spiders carried them off and deposited them in their webs surrounding Great Tree.

            Sandra called for a holiday.  Tonight, they would all drink tea and feast together.

PNWA Conference September 2019

I signed up for the Pacific Northwest Writers Association Conference held in Sea-Tac, Wa. Four days of whirlwind talks and workshops. For me, it was a rough go. Just to get this off my chest, I'm recuperating from cancer and boy, do I tire out quickly. I had to go to the car and nap a couple of times. That means, I missed some of the conference that I didn't want too. But it was either that or fall out of my chair and really cause a ruckus.


There were hundreds of attendees at the conference. If I were to guess, I would say that the gray-haired set of attendees outnumbered the youngsters by two to one. It was a unique experience for me. All we writers are not in competition, at least not directly. We all have different ways of telling our tales, be they fiction or not. And dozens and dozens of people were doing memoirs. I have some memoir work done, but with my memory - might be a bit of embellishment in there too.


Everyone was friendly. With the craft of writing as the common denominator, we could sit down at any open seat at any table and become fast friends in ten minutes talking about our stories. We would go off and lunch together, find other particular threads of people we know in in the world and perhaps find spouses for our wayward children. Hey, can always hope.


Let's talk about expense. All tallied, it cost me a little change over a thousand bucks. That took in registration, parking, gas, bridge tolls, food, hotel stay and materials bought on site. Here is the big question? Was it worth it?


My immediate take away is no. However, there is a caveat. I did get to pitch to one agent that said to send him my book. Two others politely told me to go pound sand. But there were a dozen agents and acquisition editors there that might have been interested had I been able to talk to them. The lines were long and plentiful. The pitch block - too short. Frankly, the meat of the conference is the pitch blocks. At least for me. I didn't want to spend another three hundred dollars to tout my work to, what - maybe three to six more people. I know, I know, one sell and that would make it all worthwhile. Otherwise, I didn't hear anything said by the speakers that I hadn't already read in how-to books even though the telling of their methods of writing was mostly entertaining.


Where would the point break be for me on cost? I'd say half of what I spent.


Another positive aspect of attending was that two of my friends from my writer's group were there. They both had attended this PNWA get together multiple times. They took me under their wing or dragged me around by my ear, if you will, that made the whole of the conference much more fun for me than it would have been otherwise.


My friends have clued me in on some smaller venues and are less expensive and more personal. I think I might try some of those. PNWA, to my way of thinking, may have outgrown their space.

Rain - Flash Fiction

Miss by Wang Ling

Rain

By Emmett J Hall

“Sweetheart, it’s time.”

“Oh, I don’t know Mom.  I don’t think I’m ready,” Sue raised her wide eyes from the Harlequin Romance in her lap. She unwrapped her legs out from under her in the soft overstuffed chair, dogeared the book, and set it on the end table.  The clock showed 11:45.

Sue had hoped that reading would settle the butterflies in her stomach.  The book only helped a little.  Now it was time, her stomach felt like a gross of cocoons had dislodged their winged inhabitants, and they were bursting to get out.  

“Get your umbrella and jacket. The email said your rain will start at noon.  It will only be for an hour.”  Mom opened the closet and pulled her light fuchsia umbrella out along with a matching short jacket.

Sue took the jacket.  “Do I need to put jeans on?”

“No, Sweetie.  It’s a warm rain.  You’ll see. I remember my rain like it was yesterday.  Your father was such a brooder.  His rain was so thick I hardly could see him in the column. You’ve heard the story many times.  I’ll just let you go.” 

            Sue stood in the threshold of the townhouse facing the narrow alleyway.  The sky presented a pinkish-gray overcast high in the air as though the sun would burn it off any minute from now.  No dark threatening, moisture-laden clouds showed. 

            One step into the alley, Sue felt a drop hit her shoulder.  She snapped open her umbrella and raised it over her head.  The heavens opened, and a gentle rain fell straight in the windless alley.  Did it matter if she just kept walking or if she ducked between two buildings and took another path?  Would her soulmate still find her?  Suspecting he would, with her heart pounding, she didn’t vary and kept walking.     

~~~

Tim twisted his wrist, pulled back the sleeve to his dark leather jacket to see his watch.  11:58. He leaned his scooter against a light pole at the end of the alley that the email directed him to go to and withdrew his umbrella from the box perched on the end of his seat and pushed it open.

The instant he raised the rain-guard over his head, the rain began.  Tim was a long way down the alley before realizing he hadn’t taken his helmet and goggles off.  He meant to leave them in the box, but he spent so much time as a messenger on his scooter the protections were like a normal part of him.  Then again, he had to admit he might be a bit nervous. 

Rationally, he knew he didn’t have all that much to be jittery about.  He was studious, only two months from graduating with his Finance degree, had a job lined up to replace his part-time messenger job.  Tim considered himself good-looking if a person could get the headgear off him.  His mom accused him of showering with it on.  He took the jabbing with good spirits, although he admitted leaving life on a scooter behind didn’t bother him in the least. 

The most important chapter of his life had come.  The rain.  There was no surprise when the email came.  He expected it.  The perfect mate, a life partner to shoulder the rest of life with, was out here.  It was all a bit heady, like waiting for Christmas, knowing it was months ahead then suddenly the day was upon him.  Had he done all he could do to be ready?  He thought so, but then what could he have forgotten.  Doubt crowded out the moment.

The rain stopped.  Tim lowered his umbrella and looked up at the high overcast.  This can’t be good.  Had he, in one beat of his heart, become unworthy.  Was he letting his doubts slid him down a dark path unworthy of the perfect woman?  Way down the alley, he could see a column of rain slowly working its way toward him. 

It had to be her.  Oh, my gosh.  What am I to do?  Would she accept me without my rain? I will soon find out.  Tim couldn’t let the moment pass.  As much as he felt like turning and running back to his scooter.  He needed this woman.  She was the part of him that was to be the best part of him.  He prepared himself to be the best of husbands.  The girl deserved the best, and he was ready to be just that. 

“Here goes,” Tim muttered to himself.  He raised the umbrella again as he stepped down the alley, the rain fell on him.

Tim glanced up in his googles and whispered, “Thank you.”  All it took was for him to get over himself and think of his approaching love.

~~~

The young pair, the slender scooter boy, and the thin romance reader met in the center of the alley and stopped.

The rain merged. 

Sue said, “Hello.”

Tim said, “Hello.”

The End

Together - short story

Together

The tide retreated slowly as a high far out to sea pushed a cumulation of moisture-laden clouds into shore.  Such weather patterns were not uncommon in the northern climes of Maine in August.  The Sun had beat down on the providence for the past three weeks, baking everything it touched with ninety-degree temperatures.  Surprisingly, the only respite was the low humidity despite the coastline of the Atlantic Ocean a scant half-mile away. Nevertheless, everyone wore bonnets and hats or sported umbrellas on their shoulders if they needed to depart the protection of shade. 

            Jane and Martha met at the corner where an occasional customer entered or left Myers Bakery.  A youngster with a dark green welder’s cap pulled down to his eyebrows sat in the wide-open window and waved a massive bamboo fan that his thin arms could hardly manage, to force the cooling air from outside into the store.  Yesterday, the boy waved the fan the other way.

            Martha and Jane embraced without a word.  Pulling apart, Jane spoke first.  “We both are wearing the same apron today.”

            “You, silly goose.  You know I only have two aprons, and they’re both the same.”

            “I did.  Let’s go down to the water and enjoy this cooling spell for a while,” Martha said.

Jane’s bright blue eye’s sparkled.  “Nice to leave the bonnet at home.  I especially like your fiery red hair, so much like moms.  I got dads mousy brown.”

“Listen to you talk.  You don’t have to keep this unruly hair in place.  Your hair goes right where you put it and stays there.”

“Well, maybe.  But we both got grandma’s heftiness.” Martha said.  They laughed and stepped up the two grayed wooden planks into the bakery.

            “Let’s get a buttered bagel to eat on the way,” Jane said.

            “Mr. Myers, how are you this fine day?”  Jane asked the tall thin man behind a glass counter displaying croissants, a variety of loaves, and a basket of bagels with the accompanying aroma of bread.  He had a long-hooked nose that turned sharply to the left that was doubtful he was born with.  A quarter-inch wide pinkish scar ran from the start of his eyebrow, between the base of his nose and left eye before curving out to the middle of his cheek providing a town mystery.  He never talked about it. Guesses fell to rumors.  Jane figured he most likely got it when he was a cook on whaling ships.  A bar fight didn’t fit his demeanor. Yet, one never knew for sure of one’s past.

            “Good morning, Ladies.  I am well. How are the sisters?”

 “We are in fine shape today.”

“What may I get for you today?”

            A single bagel ordered and buttered.  Jane with half the bread in the right hand and Martha with her portion in the left hand, they threaded their way arm in arm through the dusty narrow walkway between Clemens Feed store and the dark, brooding cobbler that hunched over his sewing machine all day.  Jane made Steven go to the cobbler whenever there was a need to stitch a harness or re-sole a shoe.

            The heat had baked the mud of wagon tracks into concrete.  The ruts crisscrossed in the narrow road that led to the rocky beach and the town five miles away, where a port harbored whalers and merchant ships in a natural deep-water bay.  The sisters chatted as they walked along in the short brown grass to the side of the road.

            They passed a field of bright red bricks.  “Hi, Mr. Anderson,” They called out and waved in unison.

            He waved back and returned to stacking bricks on a flat cart.

            “I’ll bet he’s been making the most of this heat to dry his bricks,” Martha said.

            “Oh, I’m happy for him.  I heard he got a commission to supply the brick for the schoolhouse addition.”

            “That’s wonderful.  Mr. Anderson does make lovely bricks.”

            Jane’s eye’s widened.  “Isn’t that Mr. McFarland up ahead?”

            “Why, yes, it is.  Seems he has broken a wheel.”  When they got alongside. “Mr. McFarland, do you need a hand? I see you have a cart full of produce.”

            “Yes, indeed.  It would be most appreciated if you two lovelies could set this new wheel on the axel when I lever the side.”  McFarland was of average height and worked as the middle man between the farmers market at the harbor and the outlying providences. “The heats been a terror on my produce this past month, it has indeed.  I welcome this cool spell.  It’d be nice if it rained a bit.”

            Jane immediately grabbed one side of the whole wheel, propped up alongside the yoke. “Martha?”

            “Certainly, my dear.  It looked as though you wanted to do the task all by yourself.  You do realize I need to pull the broken wheel off before we can set the new one.”

            “Jane’s eye’s narrowed.  “Of course, I knew that.”

            Mr. McFarland jammed a thick branch between the bed of the wagon and a dark, greenish stained barrel no more than a foot and a half across and readied himself to lift the cart.

            “Mr. McFarland,” Martha asked, “will the barrel hold the weight?”

            “Yea, Lass.  It’s fire-hardened oak of pickled herring.  Are you ready?”

            “Yes, lift,” McFarland grunted and rose the wagon to level.  Martha jerked the remains of the old wheel off and let it drop to the roadbed with a resounding thunk.

            Jane stood up the new wheel straight, and Martha took hold of the rim, and a spoke, and they lifted together.  “This a bit heavier when whole,” Martha remarked.

            “Ah, this ought not to bother you with all the oats you beat down into meal.”

            “Different muscles.”  The sisters hung the center of the wheel on the axel and wiggled it into place.

            After spinning the on the axel nut, McFarland slipped the locking pin through a hole in the axel and bent the ends over.  “You two are right handy gals to have around.  I’m thinkin’ your husbands are right proud of you two.  Thank you for your timely assistance.”  His mouth twisted into a lopsided grin. “Help yourself to whatever you’d like from my cart.”

            Martha moved to the back of the cart and slipped on the edge of a rut and almost fell.  Jane clamped her by the elbow and kept her steady.

            “Thank you,” Martha said.

            The cart was replete with all sorts of edibles. Bushels of lettuce, cabbage, and potatoes lined one side.  On the other were apples in reds, yellows, and greens.  Down the middle were closed barrels.  McFarland was hiking the one he used to fix the cart back up into the row.

            “Jane, look.  I’ve never seen an apple so yellow as these.”

            “Neither have I.  Mr. McFarland, what kind of apples are these?”

            “Those there apples are wonderful.  They’re called Golden Delicious. Quite a handful one of them is.  Try em out.”  McFarland pulled two of the largest, blemish-free apples and handed one to each of the sisters.

            By the time, Jane and Martha reached the rocky shoreline, they had finished their fruit and tossed the cores into a patch of wilting reeds.

            “Mr. McFarland is right.  Those are going to be popular.  I don’t think I’ve ever had a sweeter apple,” Jane said.

            “I agree.  Let’s see if he left any at the General store when we get back.”  The light breeze picked up its pace and threatened to toss Martha’s hair under her faded ribbon.  “Let’s sit here on the giant’s teeth for a while before we go back.”

            “Splendid idea.”  They sat.  “Where do you suppose the giant’s teeth name came from?

            “I don’t know.  I supposed it was because this short wall of rock looks like teeth.”

            Jane sat quietly as did Martha.  The sisters occasionally laughed when some boy tried to grab something out of a tide pool and jumped back with a yelp as though there was a shark in residence.

            Martha noticed the fellow first.  “Jane, look over there.”

            Jane turned her head and cocked it to the side.  “Isn’t that Mr. Homer?  What’s he doing?”

            “That stand he’s sitting at is an easel.  He keeps looking our way.”

            “Oh, I didn’t know he was a painter.  Do you suppose he’s painting us?”
            Martha stood.  “I don’t know.  Let’s go see.” 

            

Looking Out to Sea by Winslow Homer

Innocence - Flash Fiction

                                                            Innocence

The instruction came to her in a dream. In four days, she had to be at the pinnacle of her building at midnight on the fourth day of the fourth month in her fourth year.

At supper, Celeste without qualm announces her dream to Mom and Dad.

Mom made a furtive glance at Dad.

“Remember, we agreed,” Dad said.

"Mom, Dad. What is the highest part of our building? That is the pinnacle, right? Jimmy said because they put a cell tower on theirs, it made them taller than us. When will they set a tower on ours?"

"Yes, Sweetheart. Pinnacle is the tip-top of any structure, the building, a mountain, or anything else. I'm not sure about the tallest spot for our building, Honey," Dad said, "but I think it's the middle air-conditioning unit. It feeds all the common areas like the hallways, recreation room, and lobby,"

Mom grinned. "I think Jimmy's building has always been taller anyway. They wouldn't put a tower on us because other skyscrapers are much more suited to their purpose than ours."

"Oh, okay," Celeste said. The time came to ask. “Mom, will you take me to the roof in four days?” The roof at night was no strange place to her. Mom had taken her up there a few times after dark to explain the absence of stars were due to light pollution from the vast city stretching for miles around. Celeste accepted mom's explanation and wasn't sure what she was to expect at midnight on the appointed night.

Dad nodded.

“Alright, Honey. I’ll take you up. You have set an alarm and wake me. I can tell you we are not climbing on the air conditioner.” Mom said.

The final declaration of mom’s agreement bothered her. The dream was explicit. Go to the pinnacle. “Thank you, Mom.”

#

The next day, Celeste snuck up to the roof to double-check for the pinnacle. The air conditioner was much too tall for her. Getting onto the unit worried her. There appeared to be no way to scale the tall sides. Hopefully, Mom will relent and figure a way to get up there. On heading back to the access door to the roof, she realized it looked taller than the air conditioner as it jutted up from the smooth rubberized roof.

Circling the access, she found a sloping ladder affixed to the back, heading up to the top. If she were to go to the tallest part, then the creator of the dream would provide a means for her to do so. Celeste accepted the ladder as divine providence. 

On the third day, with two days to go, Mom pushed through the access door and stepped out on the roof with Celeste.

“Over here.” Celeste lead Mom around to the back of the access.

“You think this is the highest spot?” Mom asked.

“I think so. Look at it, isn’t it higher than the air conditioner?”

Mom studied the two and decided. “You’re right. It is.” 

Sleep eluded Celeste as she lay awake, waiting for 11:45 to come. She was a special little girl; mom and dad told her so, they never talked baby talk to her. They conversed with her like an adult. They explained things she wondered about and much she had not. She had not doubted for an instant that Mom or Dad would not have permitted her to go to the roof at the designated time. They had always promised they would listen to her.

She understood those things; she had been reading chapter books since the age of 3 and got the gist of the concepts the authors tried to convey. Celeste heard her dad tell a neighbor one day she was a twenty-year-old trapped in a four-year-old body. 

Celeste climbed out of bed and tip-toed out the door and headed down the hall and tapped on Mom and Dad’s bedroom door. “Be right there.” Mom emerged from the bedroom fully dressed. “Let’s go.”

Mom waited at the bottom of the ladder as Celeste gained the roof of the access. The sky appeared the same as she had seen before, dark with a few sparkles. “Stay in the middle.” Mom instructed as she made no move to climb.

“Okay, Mom.”

In the distance, a clock tower began to chime. The sky lit up in bright blue specks of light blending in with the city lights. A lovely cloud of pale blues and purples with dashes of red presented a heavenly scene.

Celeste satisfied God had called her up at this time to be a witness. In the light gray-violets of the cloud, he appeared. 

The little girl, Celeste, could not have been more pleased to learn God was a Bunny Rabbit.

Lisa Falzon - Kissed by starlight