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Kelli J Gavin: Stills

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Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create and share a story with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers generate more traffic to their platforms.  Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support! 

Stills

Kelli J Gavin 

I always said I wouldn’t return. This small town was never home to me. I was here for such a short time, I don’t think anyone will remember me. When I received the letter requesting my presence from the Law Firm of Stills, Stills & Barkley, it stopped me in my tracks. I must have read through the letter three times before I understood what it was really saying. 

        -As I already knew, the owner of the coffee shop where I worked for 8 months in my late teens had passed away.

        -I am welcome to come early on the 20th of December, and attend the funeral at 11 a.m. at the Barkley Funeral Home in town. After, a light luncheon will be served at Barkley’s, the aforementioned coffee shop. At 3 p.m. Mr. Barkley from Stills, Stills & Barkley would like to meet with me at Barkley’s to hand over a large box left to me by Mrs. Stills who owned Barkley’s. 

        -I was to inform Mr. Barkley if a room at the Stills Inn should be reserved in my name for that night or if I would be leaving town right away. 

            I giggled out loud reading the letter. In the town of Stills, The Stills and Barkley families owned everything. The coffee chop, the funeral home, the inn, the two restaurants, the bank and bakery, the gas station, the thrift store, etc.. You name it. Someone with the last name of Stills or Barkley owned it. Stills  only had a population of about 7500 people, but you were a novelty if your last name wasn’t Stills or Barkley. Generation after generation called Stills home and they lead quiet, content lives. There was no reason to live anywhere else when Stills had all that they would need. 

            I lived in Stills for just over a year. My dad was a nomad by nature. Never spending too much time in any one place, I got to see most of the United States by the time I graduated high school. I loved history and road travel, so this was the highlight of my young years. Because my dad and I spent so much time together, I was his captive audience. He taught me everything he knew and emphasized the importance of being a lifelong learner. He challenged me to read books beyond my understanding and to make notes with any questions I had. We then addressed those questions at dinner each night. Because we moved so often, he also tasked me with navigation and to learn everything about each location we passed through, or even when settled for a spell. When did the town and state originate? What is the population and topography? Were there any interesting historical happenings in a specific town or state? It was almost as if my dad challenged me with verbal book reports daily. I gladly relayed all the information that I learned at local libraries, historical societies and on the internet. 

            A year long construction contract brought my dad and I to Stills. My mom had died 5 years prior of an aggressive brain tumor and since, it was just him and I. At 17, moving to the small town of Stills was probably the first time I objected. Dad told me we needed the money and the town of Stills needed someone with experience who could work on both residential and commercial properties. Dad was made the Foreman of three specific projects. He would oversee three sites, one with twelve single-family homes, the commercial building which would house the car dealership, and the new restaurant and large gift shop at the end of town. It was a big undertaking for a small town to accomplish this much in a year, but they had faith in my dad’s proven skills and he delivered. 

            Beginning my senior year actually on time with the other students my age was something that had rarely occurred in the past. Often, I would would start school at random times, November, January 1st and even April. Whenever we moved, dad always gave me a few weeks to adjust and then informed me of my start date. He would hand me money for a new backpack and school supplies and I was expected to do my best traveling around town on my own and acquire what was needed for school and clothing. The town of Stills was laid out so well with something interesting on each of the downtown streets. There were three new and used clothing stores, a bakery, a hardware store, a 99 cent store and an office supply store on Main Street alone. I was able to grab what I needed and then some. Things were so much less expensive in this small town than what we had encountered in the last two larger cities. 

            The teachers were excellent at Stills High School and I even made friends quickly. The other students were friendly and kind and helped me become comfortable in my new surroundings. I joined the choir and started taking a before school art class, but a few months into school, I was bored. I enjoyed spending time with my friends, but I needed to find an activity after school. I enjoyed the coffee at Barkley Coffee Shop so much, I figured after school I should ask if they are hiring. Mrs. Stills told me they weren’t hiring, but she would 100% hire me. She explained that she observed that I worked so hard on my homework when there, didn’t entertain conversations with friends and acquaintances until I was finished, and was always kind to the wait staff. I blushed at the minor compliments. She told me that I would need to be comfortable using the register, warming up baked goods, preparing coffee drinks, clearing tables and doing dishes. She also explained that if I closed I would need to clean the tables, floors and bathrooms. I felt I could do well with all of that and asked her if she needed to fill out an application. 

            “Sweet child. You are hired. I just ask that you show up on time when scheduled and don’t leave me hanging. Stay off your cell phone and be kind to every person who enters those doors.” Mrs. Stills replied.  

            Thrilled beyond belief, I asked when I could start. 

            “Now. You start now. Go wash your hands and I’ll get you an apron.” She smiled earnestly. 

            I loved working at Barkley Coffee Shop. I loved the employees, the customers and especially Mrs. Stills. I worked about 12-15 hours a week and enjoyed every moment of it. I learned so much about organizing everything for each new day, and even started learning how to keep the books. Mrs. Stills entrusted me to bring the deposits, cash and checks to the bank each afternoon before the bank closed and I always raced back so that she could go home and make dinner for her husband and relax. My time with Mrs. Stills was something I will always cherish. She was kind and encouraging, helped with homework when I got stuck and showed me how to make 6 baked items from scratch. I had never spent much time in the kitchen with my mom when I was little, so learning how to make baked goods was a delight. My dad loved when I then recreated them at home. Twice a month, she asked me to go to her home and cook dinner with her. She always made something easy, nutritious and delicious. I knew how to make 12 full dinners from scratch just by spending a free evening two times a month with Mrs. Stills. 

            The conversations that we had when it was just the two of us, are something I will always hold dear. She explained her heartache at never being able to have children and that she always wanted a daughter. She said she loved our time together so much and that she was touched that I enjoyed spending time with her and learning from her. She smiled and hugged me often. “You beautiful girl. The daughter I always prayed for!”

            My dad admired my baking and cooking skills as much as he was thrilled with my grades and the fact that I knew how to keep a checkbook, save money, make wise purchases and converse about things that matter. 

            Beaming at me across the dinner table one evening, my dad said, “Alyssa. You make me so happy. I love seeing you enjoy what you are doing and maturing into a well rounded human. I am so thankful that Mrs. Stills is pouring into your life and helping you grow. I feel she is an absolute God-send.”

            When my dad’s year-long contact approached it’s final month, he explained that he asked to stay on for future projects in Stills, but nothing was slated for the next six months. He said we would be leaving Stills. Leaving Stills? But that was the last thing I wanted to do. We stayed in Stills for a total of 13 months. 13 months wasn’t enough. 13 more wouldn’t be either. I had graduated and decided to take a gap year. Dad encouraged me to commit to only one year off and then promptly return to school. We moved to Chicago as my dad signed a new 18 month contract for construction work on an upscale high rise remodel. 

            Telling Mrs. Stills that we were moving again was more challenging that I ever anticipated. 

            “But what will I do without the daughter I always wanted? I am glad your dad has another job lined up, but life will never be as entertaining as when you are here. I adore you. I am exited for you and what this life has to offer. Boy oh boy. I can’t wait for the day to get a call from you telling me about some swanky big shot job you you have. The sky is the limit. You will be missed. But boy oh boy, am I exited for you.”

            The tears I shed after my final shift the day before we left, could have watered Mrs. Stills front yard for an entire summer. So many hugs and so few words were exchanged. I vowed to never return as I felt I would be opening a fresh wound of regret for ever leaving such an amazing small town such as Stills.

            Dad and I quickly settled into our new apartment in Chicago and he was excited for this new challenge. I became bored quickly with two menial jobs and decided to start college courses after the New Year. I tested well and passed exams for the 1st two full years of classes within the first three months. I enjoyed college classes at my own pace and learned that a business degree was on my horizon. Business? Did I want to go into business? 

            I finished all of my undergraduate and graduate classes within two years total. At just 21, I had a masters in business formation and reorganization. I started working for a firm that was hired by large companies when they needed help and a fresh set of eyes. Someone to come in and teach them how to redeem profitability and increase growth without mergers or acquisitions being a part of short term and long term plans. I loved what I was hired to do and excelled. 

            I exchanged frequent emails with Mrs. Stills and we spoke monthly about what I was doing and what I was experiencing in Chicago. She laughed and reminded me that if I ever needed a job, there was always one waiting for me back in Stills. Dad’s job turned into a permanent placement as construction foreman and he seemed to enjoy Chicago as much as I did. When I moved out and purchased my own apartment, he just smiled and said, “Look at my girl fly.”

            As the years passed, memories of days gone by became a bit more fuzzy. Dad always asked about Mrs Stills. When the call came from her explaining that she wasn’t feeling well and she had gone to the doctor, she was then diagnosed with Stage IV Breast Cancer and was told that chemo, radiation and surgery were all possible, but even with pursuing the greatest medical interventions, she was given a survival timeline of 12-18 months tops. 

            My heart hurt for her. My heart hurt for Mr. Stills. My heart just hurt.

            While we stayed in touch during those final months, nothing prepared me for the call that came late one evening from Mr. Stills. Mrs. Stills, the love of his life, had passed peacefully that afternoon. We cried together on the phone and I thanked him time and again for calling. He told me that information would follow about the memorial service. No formal funeral as Mrs. Stills wouldn’t like that. Just a brief memorial and luncheon would be planned. I told him I would be there, no matter what. Even knowing how difficult it would be to go back to the only town where I found joy in as a teenager. 

            I was expecting to find out about the memorial and luncheon from Mr. Stills, not by receiving a letter from Mr. Barkley at Stills, Stills & Barkley. I emailed him promptly and stated that yes, I would attend the memorial, the luncheon and would be happy to meet with him after. I also requested that a room at the Inn be reserved for me. His assistant was happy to receive my response and she promptly booked me a room. She also said that I didn’t need to pay for anything as all accommodations have been taken care of.  I thought that was odd, but thanked her for her help. Was everyone’s accommodations being taken care of, or just mine? 

            Traveling to Stills, I knew to allow many more hours than necessary as the roads may may slippery because of the newly fallen snow. I left at 6 a.m. instead of 7:30 a.m. from Chicago and was pleased that most roads were clear until I got off the freeway about 20 miles from Stills. Those 20 miles I drove to Stills brought back so many great memories, I found myself wiping away one stray tear after another. 

            It was so good to see Mr. Stills and so many other people from town. I was received so warmly, I started crying before the memorial even began. The service was beautiful and was a true celebration of life. A God-Honoring Home Going Service to remember. My heart was full as each of the people selected to share warm memories of Mrs. Stills stood at the podium with a microphone. 

            The luncheon was so delicious and I enjoyed visiting with quite a few of the people that I had worked with all those years ago at Barkley Coffee Shop and gone to school with. Mr. Stills insisted I sit with him during the luncheon and told me more than once that he was so touched that I had returned to honor his wife in her passing. 

            “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I owe my confidence, my knowledge and much of my success to your wife. She was the mom I needed. She knew she was and never missed a moment to love me and encourage me. I am forever thankful for all she did for me.” I wiped a few tears as I expressed my gratitude. 

            Saying goodbye to a number of people I had visited with throughout the day, I nodded at Mr. Barkley as he entered the back room of the Barkley Coffee Shop. I joined him and looked around as if expecting other people, but it was just us.

            “Mrs. Stills loved you very much. You were the daughter she always wanted. This box is for you.” Mr. Barkley stood and walked to the other side of the room and retrieved a large box with a lid.

            “Thank you.” I said and paused. “Am I supposed to open this” I asked. 

            “Yes. I will leave you to it. Let me know if you have any questions.” Mr. Barkley said as he exited.

            I opened the box and found a letter, on top of something wrapped in tissue paper. Opening the letter quickly, I found the beautiful handwriting of Mrs. Stills.

            My sweetest girl-

            Thank you for being you. You are the daughter I always dreamed of and prayed for. Thank you for never breaking contact with me all these years even after moving to Chicago. Your kindness has always warmed my heart. You are an amazing woman and it has been a privilege having you in my life. Please accept the contents of this box as my gift to you. I had always wanted to save money for retirement. Retirement was something that I never got to enjoy. Cancer is a beast and it has cut my life way too short. Don’t wait until retirement. Take the trip you’ve always wanted to go on. Put a down payment on a house in the country. Buy a new car. Give this money freely to a cause you wish to support. Do whatever you wish. Just do it joyfully. Do it knowing I love you. I always have sweet girl. Thank you. I will be watching over you and your dad too. I promise.

Much love and adoration, 

Mrs. Stills

P.S. Don’t argue about the contents of this box. Consider it your final Barkley Coffee Shop tip.

——-            

             I couldn’t catch my breath for a few minutes and was so glad that Mr. Barkley hadn’t returned. I removed the tissues from my purse and blew my nose and wiped my eyes. Reminding myself to take deep breaths, I stood as I prepared to untangle the tissue paper mound found in the large box on the table. 

            Money. It was a stack of $100 bills. Stack after stacks after stacks. I could hardly believe my eyes. Why cash? Oh. My final tip from Barkley Coffee Shop. Mrs. Stills was always so intentional and clever. 

            Mr. Barkley returned to me as I closed the lid of the large and heavy box on the table. “Will you be needing  any assistance getting to the Inn?”

            “No, no. I am fine. Thank you Mr. Barkley. Thank you for coordinating this for me. I appreciate you and the guidance you have given to Mr. and Mrs. Stills over the years.” I stated. 

            At the Inn that night, I took a closer look at the contents of the box. $50,000. 50. I was in shock. 

            I returned home to Chicago the next day, but stopped as I was leaving town. I wanted to take one last picture before I left my favorite small town of Stills. 

Please visit Kelli on her blog: https://kellijgavin.blogspot.com/2025/12/stills-short-story-for-writers-unite.html

Images are free use—Image by Wolfgang-1958 from Pixabay.

Uncategorized, Write the Story, Writers Unite!, Writing

Write the Story April 2025

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Welcome to Write the Story!

Thanks to all who submitted stories in April and those who read their work!

Now for May 2025!

Don’t Forget: The word limit is now approximately 8000 + words. We grant some leeway in word count as these stories are written for fun and practice, not for competition. Also, we will no longer do minor editing on these stories.

WU! created this project with two goals: providing a writing exercise and promoting our author sites to increase reader traffic. When you post your story elsewhere, please include a link to the Writers Unite! blog. By doing so, you are also helping promote your fellow members and Writers Unite! We encourage you to share each other’s stories to help us grow. Thanks!

The May 2025 Prompt!

Images are free use—Image by yangguonin from Pixabay

Here’s the plan:

  • You write a story of up to 8000 words + (minimum 500 words) or a poem (Minimum 50 words) based on and referring to the image provided and post it on the author site you wish to promote. Don’t forget to give your story a title. (Note: You do not have to have a website/blog/FB author page to participate. Your FB profile or WordPress link is acceptable.)
  • Please edit these stories. WU! will no longer conduct minor editing on your story, so please send in edited work. WU! reserves the right to reject publishing the story if it is poorly written.
  • The story must have a title and author name, and the link to the site you wish to promote must be included.
  • Send the story and link to the site via Facebook Messenger to Deborah Ratliff or email to writersunite16@gmail.com. Put “Write the Story” in the first line of the message.
  • Please submit your story by the 25th day of the month.

WU! will post your story on our blog and share it across our platforms—Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, etc. The story will also be available in the archives on the WU! blog, along with the other WTS entries.

Uncategorized, Write the Story, Writers Unite!, Writing

Enzo Stephens: A Wonderfully Feckless Morning 

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Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms.  Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support! 

A Wonderfully Feckless Morning 

Enzo Stephens 

Ten am on a Tuesday morning, and the Riverwalk was packed, teeming with moms out with kids whose last day of school (‘prison’) was the preceding Friday; several retirement/assisted living shuttle buses loaded with walker-toting blue-headed senior women out for a fresh morning on the town.

Which was sheer joy for a middle-aged man relaxing on a wrought-iron bistro chair, just outside a cool little place called Sonny’s Creamery. It was once owned by a Marky Rollins, who claimed to have the finest damned recipe for vanilla ice cream in the world, though Ben & Jerry might offer a different opinion. That middle-aged man, Socrates Ribisci, also known as Sonny, tended to side with Rollins on that question.

The morning was absolutely stunning. Such weather made a man grateful to be able to breathe it in, basking in the sharp warmth of the sun as light breezes lent a brief, cooling respite.

Not hot enough to cause a man to sweat, but enough to be considered pleasant.

Tiny puffs of clouds speckled cerulean skies, catching Sonny’s eye. He leaned back against the seat cushion, forming fantastic shapes from the clouds scudding overhead, losing himself in the exercise until…

“Here you are, Mister Sonny.” He saw a short, portly guy with a prominent handlebar deftly flip a white tablecloth over the black, filigreed tabletop with one hand while in the other rested the object of Sonny’s desire on this fine morning (one might even consider this morning as somewhat feckless if viewing from Sonny’s perspective).

Rollins gingerly placed a large aluminum vessel (made to look as though it were pewter) in which rested a glistening masterpiece. He stood back with a smile hinting at the corners of his mustache. “Just as you like it.”

Indeed. There was that massive scoop of the world’s finest vanilla ice cream, dead center of the

creation, and flanking on either side were additional scoops: one chocolate, the other strawberry, from the same recipe Rollins used to make the world’s finest vanilla.

“Good God, Marky, you’re going to turn me into one of those dudes with a flopping gut-tongue.”

Rollins tsked. “You’re in as fine a trim for a thirty-something man as I’ve seen. Besides, one could argue that my creation is good for you.”

“Thirty-something? Good for me?” Sonny arched a thick eyebrow as he adjusted his seat to face the delicacy glittering beneath the dappled sky.

Marky handed Sonny a folded, cloth napkin in which rested a long-handled teaspoon. The men smiled at each other, and then Rollins gave a slight bow and spun on his heel to allow Socrates the sheer, uninterrupted joy of savoring the creation.

Synchronicity!

The word sprung to Sonny’s mind as he plunged his spoon into the center of the mass. How else would one describe such a treat? An unhealthy dose of butter, pure cane sugar and freshly pasteurized heavy cream from Geo’s Dairy just outside of town; in and of themselves, a pedestrian mix. But in the hands of Marky Rollins, a masterpiece.

Just beneath the mounds of multi-colored ice cream rested a banana, the underrated vehicle to this heavenly treat. Sonny considered it as offsetting to the negative dietary impact of ice cream, especially at this hour of the morning. But it was an indulgence he allowed himself on a weekly basis, and since it rained less than 70 days per year, Sonny rarely missed due to inclement weather. He would cherish this treat.

Sonny eschewed the freshly made whipped cream slathered over the top of the mounds of ice cream and went straight for the vanilla, cupping a small chunk of the gorgeous confection neatly into the bowl of the delicate spoon and held it up for the world to see.

Sonny smiled. “Vanilla first always the rule.” Not a soul spared a glance in his direction, so no one cared about his silly rules and rituals, and that was just fine with Sonny. Okey dokey from Muskogee.

Across the street, just in front of the new O’Reilly’s Auto Parts store, a young girl – no more than

fourteen or fifteen wrestled with a pair of small-breed yapping dogs that were pulling in opposite

directions and Sonny smiled at the annoyance in the girl’s visage at the situation while she struggled to manipulate her phone.

Serves her right!

These phones and kids anymore, it was out of control; an epidemic of lazy swiping and doodling with the damned things, creating a generation of hypersensitive weenies.

He plunged his spoon into the round mound of chocolate bliss. A sudden squawk behind him caused Sonny to spin in his seat at the abrasive disturbance, only to spy a huge, white seagull standing on the sidewalk, staring at him.

“Piss off, you dinosaur wanna-be! You ain’t getting a peep of this.”

Someone nearby cleared his throat; Sonny turned back to Rollins’ creation, and there sat a man across the table from him, perched sideways, legs crossed (sitting like a girl) with flinty, ice-blue eyes and a clean-shaven, razor-sharp chin.

A flash of annoyance flashed in Sonny’s eyes, and he grimaced momentarily before getting his anger under control. “Who the hell are you and I didn’t invite you to join me?”

“Indeed, you did not.” 

Deep, and sonorous, the man could have been a televangelist, and as Sonny eyed him closely, he felt a pang of familiarity. The man was impeccably dressed in a pair of lightweight, tan linen slacks with a matching linen sportscoat over a black shirt from which a candy-blue and white tie dangled. Sonny looked at the man’s feet, clad in tan loafers that looked outrageously expensive, and completing the air of casual elegance was the lack of socks.

“You ain’t wearing socks.” Sonny slipped a dollop of strawberry ice cream in his maw, waiting for the man to answer.

The man glanced at Sonny narrowly, disdainfully. “Your powers of observation defy your apish appearance.”

Sonny’s teeth clamped down on the spoon as anger sparked at the man’s insolent sarcasm.

“You look like a queer. Are you a queer?”

“If you’re referring to my sexual preferences, the answer is no. Are you?”

Sonny found the maraschino, snared it by the stem, and popped it in his gob. “What do you think?”

The man glanced at his slacks, smoothing down a crisp crease. “You know, I tell my laundry staff not to put such creases in my summer clothes. It makes them look… pretentious.”

Sonny let loose with a quick, loud laugh. Then, “As if a crease in your pants makes you look pretentious.”

The wit was lost on the man. “I see you agree.”

Annoyance sparked in Sonny again. He growled, “Who the hell are you, and what do you want? 

You know I could have you killed for parking your effeminate ass here uninvited.”

“But you won’t.”

“We’ll see.”

“As to who I am…” He continued to sit sideways at the table, seeming to speak to the telephone pole several feet away. “I am Boz Sharp.”

A warning bell went off in Sonny’s mind. Sharp. Boz Sharp. The name was achingly familiar. Sonny’s mind raced, trying to place the man.

“You ought not to beat yourself up over not recognizing me. My name is not exactly heard in many households.”

The door to Rollins’ shop opened with a jingle, and the proprietor stood behind Sonny, working a white towel in his sizeable hands. “Everything okay, Mr. Ribisci?”

Sonny kept his eyes locked on Sharp. “All good Marky. Please get the man what he wants.”

“Do you have tea?”Rollins nodded.“Please bring me a service of your finest Earl Grey.”

“Ha! I have Lipton. Teabags.”

Sharp sighed. “There are things about your barbaric country that are unpardonable. Such as Lipton teabags.” His clean-shaven lip curled upward in a sneer; neither Rollins nor Sonny reacted, the former waiting, tapping his sandal-clad foot.

“I’ll have the… Lipton then.”

Rollins spun to fill the order as Sonny took another bite. He’d finally hit the banana, and it was nothing short of luscious. “So how is it that a man wears the kind of rich leather on his feet without socks? Your feet must stink like a farting dog’s ass.”

Sharp leaned forward. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. I use dryer sheets in my shoes.”

“Damn! Seriously? You got Bounces in your shoes?”

Sharp dangled one of his shoes from his toes, Sonny detected a flash of white beneath where the man’s foot would rest. “It really works too. I use the cotton-scented ones, and my feet and shoes smell fresh. I see you’re enjoying that… mess?”

“You ain’t never had a better banana split in your life, and I really can’t smell your feet at all!”

“And I will not be having one now either. How can you eat that slop at this time of the day?”

“Easy!’ He shoveled a hunk of banana crowned with a mound of whipped cream in his mouth while Sharp looked away. He added, “Good Lord, this is nothing short of heaven-sent.” Smudges of white whipped cream rested on Sonny’s upper lip; his tongue darted out, circling his lips. Whipped cream gone.

“Now, what the hell do you want?”

“I have a contract—”

“Big surprise there.”

“I’ve been paid quite handsomely to take you out. Very public.”

Sonny slid his spoon around the tin banana boat, finding more bits of goodness. Where did it all go? A burp slipped out. That’s where! “So let’s say you do it. What makes you think you can get away?”

Sharp began to respond but was cut off by Sonny. “Alive?”

Sharp glanced at his fingernails. “Oh, not to worry. I’ve got my escape well-planned.”

Sonny carefully rested his spoon beside the now vacant aluminum boat. “Do I look worried to you? At all?”

Sharp nodded, then raised his left hand to rest a Glock G29 10mm auto on the table.

“See, the thing about worry is this: worrying is like telling God He’s not doing His job.”

“I’ve loaded it with heavy rounds, so even if I miss center mass – and I do not miss, you’ll still bleed out, even if I only hit your hand.”

Sonny nodded. “Heavy rounds are for big game.”

“A man who eats like you do should be considered big game. Heavy rounds have a much higher kill percentage.”

“Even if you hit my hand.”

“Even if I hit your hand. But hitting center mass; one round will blow you back a bit with a good-sized crater in your chest.”

And now that tickling sense of familiarity bloomed. Boz Sharp was an assassin. A good one. He

remembered hearing his uncle in New York bitching about the man, how he seemed so elusive; how they cut loose with a manhunt to find this slippery bastard and… Deal with him.

Sharp watched Sonny closely, their eyes locked over the table. “Now I know who you are, you

effeminate bitch. You worked on some of my family in New York!”

“Very good, Mr. Ribisci. Yes, I did, but it was nothing personal. A contract is a contract, and while it was certainly nice chatting with you here this morning, I’d rather be paid for taking you out than you…expiring over a heart attack or some such due to your lack of dietary control.”

Sonny grimaced. “So you can tell the future? You know how I’m gonna die?”

“All I had to do is watch you eat. You have no self-control.”

The door to Rollins’ shop jingled again. Sharp glanced up, his hand moving toward the weapon on the table… Just as Sonny snared the empty banana boat, leapt across the table and drove the handle into Sharp’s throat.

Sharp jerked back in his chair, banging against the seat back just as Sonny smashed the palm of his hand into the edge of the boat, burying the handle in the flesh, crushing Sharp’s larynx and windpipe. Sharp’s hands clutched at the aluminum vessel as Sonny kicked the table aside and stood over Sharp, holding the boat firmly in place, grinding it deeper and deeper in the man’s wrecked throat. 

Sharp’s eyes rolled up as blood flowed over his black shirt and linen sportscoat, and then the two men crashed to the sidewalk with Sharp still in the chair, his foot stuttering out a frenetic twitch in the air as his life slipped away.

Sonny stood, turned, and saw Rollins standing there, eyes huge and in shock. Sonny plucked the firearm from the pavement and then ejected a round from the chamber. He wrapped his arm around Rollins’ shoulder and led him back into the ice cream shop. “Don’t worry none, Marky, I’ll have this cleaned up in no time. Why don’t you go on home, I’ll close up the shop for you.”

If Socrates Ribisci was anything, he was a nice guy. And wet work always made him hungry, and what would be better on this fine, feckless morning than another banana split?

Please visit Enzo on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Enzo.stephens.5011

Images are free use—image by WillieWonka070 on Pixabay 

D. A. Ratliff, Guest Articles, guest blogger, Uncategorized, Writing

D. A. Ratliff: Author, Read Thyself

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Never believe “the little white lies.”

Images are free-use—image by steve_a_johnson on Pixabay.

Author, Read Thyself

D. A. Ratliff

I grew up in the South, where “little white lies” were uttered daily. The “My, you look lovely today—love that color on you.” Or “I swear, that’s the best shrimp and grits I ever ate.” Or my favorite, “It’s so good to see you.”

Not malicious lies, but ones intended to be polite even though the person telling them didn’t mean them. While these folks intended these comments to be kind, there is an increasing use of the “little white lie” in society.

As a writer of many years and an admin for a large writing group for nine years, I have read a fair share of stories by novice to experienced writers. While many are excellent, many are not. Yet, in our quest to be kind and not be truthful, we tell these writers little white lies. Those lies do nothing to improve a person’s writing skills.

Recently, a writing group member posted a piece, lamenting that few had read it and asked for an honest critique. I read the piece and formed my opinion on why readers ignored it. To be blunt, it was poorly written. The author presented it as poetry but constructed it like prose. Yes, poetry comes in many forms and structures, some quite abstract. However, this was not one of those.

I chose my words carefully, not utilizing little white lies to temper my thoughts, but was honest in my evaluation. I need not tell you the writer’s reaction—angry and defensive.

I have had my share of ticked-off reactions to critiques of my work. One of my first critiques suggested I use an ‘and’ now and then. I was livid. Who was she to tell me to add an ‘and’ to my sentences? (She was a newspaper copy editor.) I didn’t need… oh wait, yes, I did. Calming down and researching, I realized my story was full of run-on sentences. At that moment, I considered the possibility that I might not know everything about writing. I decided to accept the critique without anger and consider the review valid. Have I been successful in not getting mad when I receive unkind comments? No, I have not, as I am human, but realizing I could be wrong caused me to delve into information that has made me a better writer. It has also made me aware that I have more to learn.

As we saw with Amazon, the advent of numerous platforms to share writing on, both fiction and non-fiction, has created a plethora of writers posting work. Don’t get me wrong, I am not suggesting anyone doesn’t have the right to post. They do. But much of this writing is, well… not good.

Yet, the “likes” given to a story can be numerous, but the comments are often not truthful to the level of quality. “Love this, it’s wonderful.”  “You write so well.”  “I can’t wait for more.”  Do they sound like little white lies? In some instances, these are genuine comments, but for most, the reviewer thinks, “That was awful, but I am not going to tell the author. I’ll make them feel good and tell them it’s great.” Again, that does not help a writer become better skilled.

What is it that we, as writers, should do? A Biblical proverb, “Physician, heal thyself.” applies here. Dictionary.com defines this phrase as “A biblical proverb meaning that people should take care of their own defects and not just correct the faults of others.”

Take care of our own mistakes. As writers striving to become better skilled and to write words with more significant impact, we should constantly study our craft. How can I write a better opening? How can I bring depth to my character? How can I not sound like I have never written a word before?

It is easy to fall prey to compliments. We all love them. I recently posted a story with a continuing character that I felt was not one of the best in the series. I was satisfied with it but knew I had written better-crafted stories. I received a lot of compliments, and I appreciated them. However, I remarked to a writing friend that it was not the best story I had written about the character. That friend agreed. That agreement told me my friend was honest with me, and I could trust this person’s critiques.

Find someone who will tell you the truth. Someone you trust who offers their opinions in your best interest. Most of all, be honest with yourself. You read the writings of others. Only the person who has a false sense of their ability will not recognize when someone is more accomplished than they are.

Authors, read your writing. Critique it. Recognize when your work is not good and rewrite it. Don’t just toss out words to be cute or funny or make someone cry. Learn the skills to impact the lives of your readers. We can be our own worst critics. Sometimes, we don’t accept that our writing is good and beat ourselves up. Don’t do that. Turn that frustration into learning how to improve. Don’t tell yourself a little white lie.

As the proverb says, heal thyself.

Resources:
Dictionary.com
https://www.gotquestions.org/physician-heal-thyself.html

About the Author:
A Southerner with saltwater in her veins, Deborah lives in the Florida sun and writes murder mysteries. She is published in several anthologies, and her first novel, Crescent City Lies, is scheduled for release in 2024.

Please visit Deborah on Vocal Media:  https://vocal.media/authors/d-a-ratliff 
And on her blog: https://daratliffauthor.wordpress.com

Uncategorized, Write the Story, Writers Unite!, Writing

Colleen Mitrano: Abyss Cove

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Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms.  Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support! 

Several Writers Unite! members and guests post their writing on Vocal Media. Please visit Vocal Media for more of this author’s work. Check below for links.

Abyss Cove

Colleen Mitrano

Carrie shook her head and blinked as she woke up. A loud thud followed by what she was pretty sure was a mumbled curse from another passenger as they dropped their IPAD across the aisle awakened Carrie from her slumber. She glanced down at her watch. It was a quarter past three. Carrie couldn’t believe she had slept for over an hour, yet she still had about two and a half hours left before the train pulled into Abyss Cove Station. 

Her stomach rumbled. Carrie grabbed her water and took a few sips. This would have to do for now, she wasn’t in the mood to make her way to the dining car, and she didn’t want any of the chocolates she brought along for the ride. Carrie watched the snow-covered landscape pass by through the window. It had been a particularly cold January with a few early storms that left everything looking like a winter wonderland. “What a deception”, she thought to herself. 

Where Carrie was headed was anything but a wonderland. She envied the other passengers on the train. Most looked enthused, happy to be traveling. Carrie imagined they were probably going to be reunited with family they haven’t seen in a while with warm hugs and laughs to be had. 

A strong feeling of resentment ran through Carrie. She despised that she was summoned back to Abyss Cove. Knowing that her time outside was over made Carrie long for the moment when she got permission to go and explore the world. Although now that felt like a lifetime ago, she still remembers it like it was yesterday. The day her father told her she could go up and live like everyone else. Experience life to its fullest, it was the happiest Carrie had ever been, and today was now the saddest. 

Carrie looked around her car. It wasn’t full, but there was a decent number of people on it. A range in ages, which was a bit surprising to her. She wondered if the other cars had similar travelers. 

“I’m from Fort Worth, Texas,” said the woman sitting in front of Carrie. She had auburn hair with a little grey piece here and there. She looked to be in her early fifties. The woman had struck up a conversation with the young man sitting directly across from her. He had dusty blonde hair and hazel eyes. He looked like he had a tan. Carrie got the impression he liked being outdoors, especially by the water. 

“I have two dogs. Lanna, my Terrier mix, and Grace, my Pitbull.” She pulled up a picture on her phone to show the young man. He smiled. “My cousin is going to take care of them for me. I’ll miss them for now, but I’ll see them again.” She said. Carrie noticed a tinge of melancholy in her voice. Hearing the woman talk about her dogs made Carrie almost excited to see her family dog Spark. Although she was sure Lanna and Grace were a lot cuddlier than Spark was.

“We used to have a family dog,” replied the young man. “His name was Petie. He was a Lab. He passed away a few years back; Petie was an old guy, and he lived a good life.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Answered the Auburn-haired woman. “I’m sure you’ll see him again.”

“Yeah.” The young man said with a half-baked smile.

The train’s whistle blew. Then a voice came over the loudspeaker, “Next stop, Abyss Cove. Please gather all your belongings as this is our final destination.” People started moving around. Putting away anything they were doing or eating. Bags began being zipped and snapped. A sense of excitement and anxiousness could be felt in the air. Carrie felt more of the latter. She wasn’t overjoyed about going home. 

The train began to slow up. Carrie looked out the window, the station was now in view. It was rather busy, but then again, this was it. A knot grew in Carrie’s stomach as the train came to a full stop. The doors opened, and voices started clambering in from all directions. As passengers began to disembark, people began running to one another, their faces lighting up as they were reunited. There were of course, a few people like Carrie who didn’t have friends or family meeting them. Like her they seemed to slowly walk towards the steps leading to the exit. 

Carrie ignored the taxis lined up, looking for those lost souls who needed a lift. She didn’t need a ride; it wasn’t far, and she knew exactly where to go. As she walked by the last cab, the driver tipped his hat to her. She smiled. Carrie couldn’t believe he still drove for Charon after all these years and, most of all, still recognized her. Carrie then put her head down, continued walking and a little smile grew across her face.

It was twilight. There was a crimson hue cast over the sky. The streets were bustling with a few riders stopping by pubs and shops before heading to wherever their eventual end would be. Most travelers took advantage of their time in Abyss Cove before departing. Although it was a busy place at times, it was rarely an actual final destination for anyone stopping here. Most found their way to other places beyond the Abyss to spend their time.

Carries’ travels took her farther out of the village. The streets got darker, the buildings less inviting. There was practically no one around now. She wasn’t surprised, people didn’t tend to head this way.

“Hey,” she heard a familiar male voice call to her. Carrie turned around to see that young man with the dusty blonde hair from the train running towards her. It startled her a bit, as Carrie really wasn’t expecting to see anyone.

“Yes.” She answered.

“I think I’m lost.” Said the man, a little winded as he ran up to her. “I was under the impression my grandparents would be meeting me at the station, but they weren’t there. I’ve tried to get a hold of them or anyone, and I keep getting nothing. Is service bad here?”

Carrie’s apprehension about heading home lessened as a bit of sorrow crept in. “Service is really bad here. Unless you have the right connection.” She replied. The young man looked at her, confused. Carrie saw the puzzled look on his face and quickly continued before he could question her. “Anyway, were you positive your grandparents would be here? 

Again, he looked at Carrie, a bit bewildered. “Of course, I was positive. They are my grandparents. Who else would want to see him when I arrived?” He answered vehemently. 

“Okay. Okay.” I wasn’t implying you were lying or something. I was clarifying so we could figure out where to look. Carrie responded, trying to ease the tension that was rising. “This guy was definitely a bit high-strung strung,” she thought.

“Sorry. My name is Marc. I’m just anxious to get where I need to be, that’s all.”

“It’s okay. I’m Carrie. So are your grandparents permanent residents of Abyss Cove, or were they just meeting you?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I’ve never been here before.”

“Well, most people haven’t,” replied Carrie with a slight laugh. Marc smiled a little.

“You have, though. Haven’t you?” Marc asked with intrigue.

“Yes.” Carrie replied uneasily. She squirmed in her jacket. She figured her all too relaxed attitude and familiarity with the place gave her away.

“But you came back?” he asked.

“You could say that.” She answered with a bit of relief. Marc’s thought process was headed in a different direction than she anticipated. “Do any of these houses look like something your grandparents would live in? Or do any of these houses just draw you to them? Like you’d want to stay here for a bit?”

Marc glanced around and shook his head. “No. Not for me and not for my grandparents. These houses are all kind of depressing looking. My grandparents were full of life, they would have something that reflects that.” 

Carrie wasn’t surprised none of these houses would be occupied by his grandparents. Most of them were just rentals. His grandparents probably weren’t Abyss Cove resident types. People who stayed here did so until they figured things out. Decided which direction they were headed in or got the calling to move on that sort of thing. 

“Do you have family here?” Marc asked.

“Yeah. We are just a few blocks away.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll probably get you settled before then. It’s okay I wouldn’t want to meet them either if I didn’t have to.” They both let out an awkward laugh.

“You’re not looking forward to seeing them?”

“Not really. We’re not the warm and fuzzy type. Our family is complicated. Although I am sort of excited to see Spark. She’s our dog.”

Sort of excited?” questioned Marc, looking a bit puzzled. “Is she a beast or something?” He continued with a chuckle. Carrie awkwardly smiled back.

“Ha, that’s one way to put it. Let’s just say she is a hellish of a hound.” 

“Eh, wouldn’t want to meet her on a bad day I guess?” Marc responded lightheartedly.

Carrie tried to keep the upbeat tone of the conversation going. “Nope. She’s a feisty one.” They continued walking and the world just kept getting more desolate. The sky still had that crimson overcast but it appeared darker. The trees seemed to be less alive. Birds no longer sang, there just seemed to be nothing. Carrie hoped Marc would find who he was looking for, but he didn’t. She knew he wouldn’t. That initial pin of sorrow she felt when they met up a few blocks back told her everything.

“Woah, did you hear that?” Marc jumped.

“You can hear it?” replied Carrie somberly. She was hoping he wouldn’t be able to hear them, that never boded well.

“Yeah. Those are the loudest dogs I’ve ever heard.”

Carrie felt a knot in her stomach. She knew what it was. They were close now. The hounds could sense them, and they were alerting her family.

“Are they your dogs as well?” Marc seemed a little nervous.

“Kind of. Family dogs. They are all a bit fiery.” Carrie answered.

“Fiery. They sound downright demonic.” Carrie let out a huge laugh. Marc just looked at her with a sense of bewilderment and panic. She could tell he was starting to figure things out.

“Well, if the shoe fits,” she answered. Carrie just continued walking, leaving Marc to his thoughts. They finally came to the end of the block. In front of them stood a large Victorian house. If anything looked like it belonged in a scary story, it was this. They stopped in front. There was a locked gate. Carrie took out an old key.

“Wait, is this your stop?” asked Marc.

“Yeah, of course. Where else would I go? This is the end of the block.” Carrie replied. She unlocked the gate and walked through. Marc just stood there staring. “Aren’t you coming?” 

Marc, still a bit uneasy, followed her. He looked around as they walked up the pathway. The house was old, you could even see gravestones off in the distance. They climbed the stairs. Carrie stopped on the landing before opening the door. She looked at Marc. 

“I shouldn’t feel sorry, but I do. I’m sorry you didn’t realize this is where you were going when you got off at Abyss Station. Most people know. I’m not sure what you did, but they must have thought you had some chance of redemption in you, or they wouldn’t have let you walk with me. Normally, one of Charon’s drivers picks you up and gets you here, but I guess your scales weren’t in place yet. I’m sorry they didn’t fall in your favor, and your grandparents weren’t called to get you.”

Marc didn’t reply. He just stared at her stone cold. There was a shift in his eyes though. The kindness that she saw on the train and when they walked completely vanished. A vicious demeanor came through, one that she often saw here. It saddened her. That’s why she liked being on the other side so much more. There is always a chance the scales could balance differently. There is so much promise in humanity, and she loved seeing the good win over the bad. 

Carrie turned away from Marc and opened the door. She looked at it, there engraved on it, “Porta Inferi” as if she could forget. Carrie walked in and then motioned for Marc to follow “C’mon, Marc. Go Down the hall to the first office on the left. My dad’s waiting.”

Marc didn’t look at Carrie as he passed her and headed down the hall to his fate. Carrie walked through the long corridor towards the living room. She could feel the heat of the fires below and hear the loud rumbling snores from her Hellhound Spark, who was probably curled up in her normal spot by the living room entryway. Yes, she was home.

Please visit Colleen on her sites:
Website: www.uniquelyindividuallyme.com 
Facebook: facebook.com/uniquelyindividuallyme
Vocal Media: https://vocal.media/author/colleen-mitrano

Images are free use and require no attribution. Image by Kanenori from Pixabay. 

Check out these sites:
Vocal Media. com https://vocal.media
Vocal+Assist on FB: https://www.facebook.com/groups/vocalplusassist A great resource and support for Vocal members.
Writers Unite! on FB: https://www.facebook.com/groups/145324212487752

Uncategorized

Laura DePace: Empty Desert

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Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms.  Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support! 

Empty Desert

Laura DePace

The road,
Sand and cactus,
Stretched before me.

Empty.
Deadly.

My life,
Loneliness and heartbreak, 
Stretched before me.

Empty.
Deadly.

I clutched my empty heart,
My empty womb.

“Why?!”
I screamed 
“Why were they taken from me?”

I sank to my knees
In the hot desert sand
And wept
For what was,
What is,
And, saddest of all,
What can never be.

Please visit Laura on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/laura.depace.967

Images are free use and require no attribution. Image by 12019  from Pixabay.