It is quiet now. All the prep work is done. I have snuck away to do my post before the true rush of preparing a Thanksgiving dinner strikes. For those of you celebrating Thanksgiving, I hope you and your family have a peaceful and happy gathering full of memories you will always cherish.
One to CE Ayr for providing the photo prompt of the door. I love doors and the endless possibilities they supply. The comings and goings, the soaring hearts of a open door and the crashing dreams of a closed one.
I noticed the newly painted door three months ago. On my nightly walks with my dog Scout, I soaked in the details of the padlocked chain and the shiny lock designed to keep honest people out. Later hunched together with four of my more unsavory friends, we speculated about what lay behind the locked door. As beers were downed, the possibilities grew wilder and wilder.
Last night One-Eyed Sam picked the lock. Shaking in anticipation, we crept through the open door. I lit my torch and held my breath.
I now know exactly how Geraldo Rivera felt that night in 1986.
Running late, racing to be on time for the 8:00 pm curtain call, Stefan pushed his car into the corner. The discordant sound of crushing metal signaled his fatal mistake.
On the anniversary of his death, longing to feel closer to her lost love Margarita clutched Stefan’s prized Cello and wept. As the clock struck 8:00, the music started. Soon she was wrapped in the warm silky tones of Bach´s Cello Suite No. 1 that her husband’s long slender fingers had been able to lovingly coax from the instrument that vibrated in her arms.
Every year growing crowds attend Stefan’s concert.
Note – Another story that involves death. I am not a dark depressed person – really. I tried to get a upbeat note to this story. Did it work?
Thank you to all that took the time to read my story and for commenting or liking this effort. If you would like to read more please click the link below –
The drums of war shattered the peace in their village. A devastated Solange clutched her husband Remy before he and thirty-nine others rode north slowly receding from sight.
Time marched on. Seasons changed. Day and night a determined Solange labored while her hands bled, crafting the tiles in the color of her husband’s coat of arms. Solange’s turret became a beacon seen for miles.
Her task completed, Solange relentlessly scanned the horizon.
In the fifth year, a rag-tag group of men approached from the north. Her heart lurched as she slowly counted. One, two…
Thank you for reading. I appreciate all comments and encourage you to help me develop my writing skills by being gently critical.
The frail voice uttering her Apache name sent her mind careening, bouncing off memories to hot, dusty days at her grandparent’s Trading Post. As a teenager desperate to leave, University provided a stepping stone on the path a new life. Hard work led to Cupertino, California, her bright eyes focused on success. She never looked back.
Still grieving her grandfather, Onawah surveyed the Trading Post ravaged by the plagues of recessions, high gas prices, and indifference. Drawing on the strength of her ancestors and a well-used Marketing Degree, she built a new Trading Post.
And she never looked back.
Note – Onawah is an Apache name that means Bright Eyed One
Thank you to all those that read my story last week and for the comments.