| 1 2 3 |
"Unopened" (the eighty-fifth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
4 5 |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Unopened" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EDT), Oct 15, 2008 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Unopened By glenlee10@sky.com (Entry #2) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| It swells, layer on layer on layer
of furled chiffon velvet, tight whorls of petals-to-be, but the bud’s autumn coat, translucent thin, is too fine to keep its fragile heart safe from the cool night airs that probe and chill delicate growth. Sap, on tap, warmed by the photosynthesising sun, coloured leaves green and flushed buds gentle pink. At the season’s turn, sap slows, becomes sluggish. Vital pathways die, and begrudge the passage of liquor. The rose’s last bud waits for birth but like a child dying in the womb, its only future is decay; perfection and potential irrelevant. Too cold, the bud will never mature. The flower will never dance in the breeze of a butterfly’s wings; will never offer itself to a honey bee’s quest. Its membranous coat browns at the edges. Out of the sight, the petals are rotting and the bud will wither, Unopened. |
| Unopened By DaNice D. Marshall poohbkae@comcast.net (Entry #3) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| At seventeen years old, Vanessa
Shelby had gone to a grand total of three school dances. Each time she had been
chaperoned by her mother. Mrs. Shelby, like most mothers was a bit
over-protective of her daughter and paranoid about what boys wanted. Then there
was the strange thing about Mrs. Shelby, the way she practiced her gardening,
in which she nurtured only the flowering plant buds, never its flowers.
At the end stage of budding, just as the hint of color emerged, Mrs. Shelby would clip the bud and corterize the stem with a sugary paste. She then talked and soothed the plant, as any other gardener would do with a prized bloom, but of course there would never be a flower. It was an arduous task, this preemptive strike against nature and blooming buds, but Mrs. Shelby carried out her duties gallantly, and the buds in her garden momentarily tipped with color, reminded the casual passerby of an artist's paintbrush lightly dipped in paint. Of course, there had been times when rainfall and sunshine came in equal amounts, and it had been quite the task to keep up with the budding plants. There was always the dreaded flowering of a bud during the night, and it was then that Mrs. Shelby showed the most tenacity. Sometimes she would wake Vanessa from a sound sleep, to accompany her out into the garden. Together, by moonlight, they would silently clip the buds. It was at these trying times, when Vanessa felt the greatest misfortune of having been born, the daughter of Mrs. Beatrice Shelby. To the best of her knowledge, Vanessa had no relatives, but one cousin named Miss Dahlilia Macon, who was her mother's distant cousin. Old enough to be Mrs. Shelby's mother, Dahlilia lived 120 miles away in distant Florence, Mississippi. It was rumored that Vanessa's father had died picking flowers, which was supposedly why Mrs. Shelby despised the sight of a flower in bloom. Vanessa thought it had more to do with love, and the soft touch of a flower's petal against the skin. But whatever the reason, there really wasn't any way to discredit the fact that Mr. Shelby had died while Mrs. Shelby was busy giving birth to Vanessa, and just as the crown of Vanessa's head emerged, Mr. Shelby had died. It was at the very moment when he had selected a fuchsia colored rose, and named it the Shelby Rose as he gasped his last breath. But no one had ever seen the rose, and no picture was ever taken to prove its existence. Still, there was Mrs. Shelby in her garden with her shears, hell bent that no flower would ever bloom again. "Unopened," she said, and smiled pleasantly at Vanessa and reached over to tuck a wisp of hair behind Vanessa's ear. "That's best, all around," she sighed. "Now, I'll be gone only for the day and I'll be home by evening. God willing, Cousin Dahlilia's near death and it just wouldn't be right for her to meet her maker without a family member to say goodbye. Really Nessa," she called her daughter by her pet name. "I do wish you would come with me." "I'll be fine," Vanessa said, perhaps a bit too quickly, as Mrs. Shelby's eyes narrowed. "Really, Momma, I will." Then, at exactly ten O'clock Mrs. Shelby backed out of the driveway, with Vanessa waving goodbye, happy to finally, at long last to be alone. "I'll be home before nightfall," Mrs. Shelby called out. She wiggled her fingers "Toodaloo!" and drove away. Vanessa stood for a long time and watched after the car, watched in the direction of where the car had been, watched to be sure that it hadn't doubled back, watched to be certain, that her mother really had left her, finally alone. After more than an hour had passed, without a sign of her mother, Vanessa sighed and headed back into the house. She slowly dialed a telephone number that she knew by heart. She smiled contentedly, as she listened to the phone ringing on the other end. "Hello," she purred. "No, not here silly, I'll be there, just make sure you're there. See you then," she smiled and carefully set the phone receiver back onto the cradle and gazed dreamily out the window, at her mother's garden, where the buds had recently been clipped. Her mother would have wanted Vanessa to stay home. But the timeless tale of love, the notion of caring and being cared for, all appealed to Vanessa. So it happened in the back row of the downtown Monticello Theater. On the Wednesday afternoon, when Cousin Dahlilia was set to meet her maker and Mrs. Shelby finally left her daughter alone, Vanessa rode her bicycle to the movies, to the silver screen rerunning of Clark Gable in "Gone With The Wind". "Thank you God," Vanessa whispered, when Jason Whitley not only paid for the two movie tickets, but held the heavy brass door open for her, held and hand, and then ordered buttered popcorn for them to share. It was a perfect date. He led her to the back row of the theater, to his familiar seventh seat, with its detached screw and soft cushioned seat. Way in the back, in the dark, further than the other seats. "Oh!" Vanessa cooed, when Jason accidentally, on purpose knocked the popcorn into her lap. They both laughed, then picked up the popped kernels and she didn't mind when his hand lingered, then fingered areas of her being, that only she had explored. Vanessa knew what was happening. But she liked it. Still, she could hear her mother's voice. The voice of reason that instructed her to pull her plaid skirt back down. But Jason's voice warmly urged her along and she listened to only his voice. Until the film's musical score reached a loud concerto, then Vanessa had gone too far and she needed to believe him when he said, "I love you." Jason's tongue felt like her own, as he pulled her onto his lap. It was a long movie, and when the final credits rolled along and the house lights came up, Vanessa panicked. She grabbed at her skirt hem and sheepishly glanced about the theater, to see who might've seen them, but no one seemed to have noticed them at all. It was the most wonderful thing, the deflowering of Vanessa Shelby. Just before darkness fell around the buds, Mrs. Shelby arrived home. There would be no more chances for Vanessa to get away and Jason, tired of waiting found another girl. The days passed, each like the one before, until two hundred and seventy days had passed. And then, on that day when Vanessa's belly budded and the crown of an infant's head emerged, Mrs. Shelby looked about the room for her garden shears. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #2 Second place: #5 Third place: #1, #3, #4 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Unopened lins.writing@yahoo.com |
#1 of 5 |
| 2137 words | |
| Wind blew harsh and wild about the farm, making the
barn door gape at the onslaught of debris funneling into the hollow belly of
lost dreams and broken promises. For Nate, neither the hopes created with the
structure, nor the visions of youth remained. Days passed like weeks, weeks
like months, making the past two years bare and lifeless. How could such a thing happen to him, the one who had everything going for him, a life that had offered so much? When had he turned down the wrong path? He worked hard, helped neighbors, and he made sure he voted in every election; even if he didn’t attend his church, he still tithed. Where had he lost sight of his goal? What had been his goal? He couldn’t remember. Right after he’d come home from college, his father had died, leaving him the farm and all the work that went with it. His father had kept it up fairly well but numerous things remained for Nate to upgrade. He was supposed to get married but with his father’s death, he had put the wedding on hold for a while. Theo understood and had encouraged him to ‘find himself’, before getting married. Maybe that hadn’t been a good idea after all. Turning back to the house, he shook his head in sorrow and defeat and slowly went up the porch steps. Entering the house, everything looked as bleak and deserted as the barn. The sink was full of dishes and newspapers strewn about the family room. Right - family room. It never got to be that. Nate flopped down on the couch and noticed a book on the bottom shelf of the coffee table. He reached for it, but before he touched it he recalled who gave it to him, and hesitated. A lump grew in his throat; leaning back, he remembered the circumstances surrounding this gift. ** “Nate, look at that sunset!” Theo sighed, walking up behind him and touching his shoulder. “I hope we see many more from this very spot. You and me, together forever,” he whispered, and drawing her close beside him. “Less than a month and this will be ours, not just mine.” “Nate, I told you the farm doesn’t matter to me, just you and this.” She held out the book, smiling. “What’s this? I told you I’d have none of that in this house. Garbage, that’s all it is! Lies, all of it lies.” “I know what you said, but I hoped…” “That’s right, you hoped. Is that all you do is hope? If you want anything in this world, you must do it. It’s not up to anyone else but you. If we take charge of life, we’ll go far and get all we need. We don’t need anyone or anything but us.” Her mouth opened as if to respond but she didn’t. She pinched her eyes shut; took a deep breath, opened them again, turned and went in the house. When she came out, he was sitting on the step looking up at her as if nothing transpired. “Well, come on, sit beside me. Let’s enjoy the evening together.” “No, I can’t. I must get going; I have an early day tomorrow.” Bending down, she kissed his head and walked slowly to her car, turned around and waved.. The yard light caught her gentle smile, searing it to his memory. That was the last time he saw her at the farm. Two days later, he received a package with her engagement ring and a simple note, ‘Forgive me’. ** Dredging this up brought an overwhelming melancholy. The “if onlys” and “what ifs” filled his mind with “should haves” and “could haves”. His life since her leaving meant nothing. He never asked why she didn’t want to marry him, even when on occasion he saw her in town. He told himself he didn’t need her; he could get along just as well without her. He did too. The farm had grown to be the largest one in the county. However, that’s all he had, his farm and nothing more. He picked up the book and an envelope slipped from it and skittered across the hardwood floor. Scrawled on it was “To Nate, my love”. He picked it up and opened it. Dearest Nate, my gift, As our names both mean God’s gift, I give this book and myself to you as a token of my love. You are truly God’s gift to me. I pray this book will open every door and see us through each trial we encounter. In addition, that you will learn, it will guide us through anything the world will put in our path. We must stand firm and trust the wisdom offered in it. Please read the thirteenth chapter of 1 Corinthians. It will help you understand what love is. This is how I love you. Please, give this book a chance. If you don’t, I cannot marry you at this time. Love, Theo He read the note, and then reread it. Dare he open the book? No! Why not? He didn’t believe any of it anyway, what harm could it do if he read it? What did he have to lose by reading it? He couldn’t go on the way he was; life was empty, mediocre at best. Could this book actually do what she said? He’d tried everything else to fill the barren hole in his life and heart with no result. Hadn’t he worked from before dawn until after dusk every day to make a good home for them? Even when the prices for his crops were down, he somehow made a profit. Wasn’t he the one that did all the work, scrimping and saving, no cutting corners, just hard work? Wasn’t it him that fixed everything that broke? He’d built this farm up from nothing all by himself. How could he give any credit to a god about whom he knew nothing? It had to be a crutch, just like his father said. How could he lean on a god he couldn’t see or hear? What had this god ever done for him? He remembered very little of his mother. She passed away while he was in grade school, four years after his father had come home from the war. She was kind, gentle, and loved him. She sent him to Sunday school until his father made her stop. He remembered the last Sunday he went. The argument between his mother and father had been a doozy. He’d heard his father screaming at her half way down the drive. The words seemed to slap him as he snuck in the back door of the house. “There is no god, you brainless, weak woman! I’ll not have my son fed such lies! He will not be taught dependence on any anything but himself. Do you hear me, woman?” She said nothing back to him, just sat at the kitchen table with her head bowed and hands folded in her lap. Why wouldn’t she respond? All this time Nate hadn’t figured that out. He remembered as soon as his dad went out to the barn to work, she still took time each morning to pray for his father. Why would she pray for him when he was so mean to her? Her prayer was always the same. He remembered it only because he heard it so often. “Dear Lord, be with us today, guide us and guard us, protect us from all harm and evil. Let us be kind to all people and show our love for you through other people. Let us grow in wisdom, knowledge, patience and understanding, peace and humility, with each other, the world, and ourselves. Oh God, soften his heart, help him to see you as I see you. Let him come to you with open heart and mind. In your name, I pray. Amen.” Her voice was soft but he’d always listened for the amen before entering the kitchen. That was a memory he hadn’t thought about for many years, and it was good. He smiled at remembering the words of that prayer. What could possibly have hurt his father so much that he was so against the book? Why wouldn’t he let his mother pray? How could he find out? Where would he search for the answers? Maybe in the chest his mother kept in the attic. Racing up the stairs, he nearly fell over the box he had left in the doorway. He pushed it aside and flipped on the light. The whole room was just as she had left it almost twenty years ago, except for the sheets and cobwebs covering everything. He pulled off the sheet and opened the chest. All of the picture albums from his childhood were stacked on one side. Next to them were shoeboxes, all labeled, making it easy to tell what they contained. Recipes, crochet patterns, knitting projects, ribbons, buttons, letters. Letters? Maybe this would help. He took the cover off the chair, and sat down. He opened the box, and read the return address on the top letter. Sergeant Martin Yale. These must have been when his father was in the war. His father never discussed the war. These letters might hold answers. Taking out the first one, he read. My dearest Anna, The days are never-ending. The nights are so dark and hot. The only thing good about the night is I can’t see all the devastation and death surrounding me.. Today Frank died in my arms. I prayed for help, I pleaded, and none came. He begged God to save him. Where was his God? He was nowhere to hear these requests, not above the screaming men and deafening guns, nowhere to be seen between the flashes of bombs and smoke from the fires. I told him, there is no god, but he kept praying, then he stopped, looked me right in the eyes, smiled, and died. Then, the medic came. “He’s dead, let him go,” he said and made me let go of him. We left him there, alone, without his god. If I make it out of this, it will be because I’m destined to live through it. Not because of any prayer said to a god! I’m sorry for burdening you with all of this, but I have nobody else to tell. The men here know what I mean, what I’m feeling, but don’t care, because they feel the same thing. I miss you and love you. Give little Nate a kiss for me. Marty He folded it up and put it back in the envelope. He didn’t read any more; there was no need. He was starting to understand why his father was so bitter about God. This wasn’t the God he remembered from Sunday school. That God was very different. Now, he knew what he must do. He put the letters back, closed the chest and covered the furniture. Going back down stairs into the family room, he looked through the table of contents of the Book, and found 1 Corinthians. He locate chapter thirteen titled Love, and read it. When he reached the last verse, he couldn’t believe it. It said all that life needed was faith, hope and love, and the greatest of them was love. This is what Theo had been trying to get him to understand all along. Her life had all three, faith in the contents of this Book, hope for their future and most of all, love. He knew now all three were missing from his life. Had too much time passed? Would she listen to him? Why hadn’t he listened when she’d tried to explain her beliefs? Couldn’t he see the likeness between his mother and Theo? They lived their lives in the same manner, just like this chapter, filled with love. They accepted what life gave them with faith, hope, and love, and did it with joy, regardless if the circumstances were good or bad. They saw roses, not thorns. How could he be so blind? Now it was his turn to ask for forgiveness. Would she forgive him? Would the time that past make any difference? Would she still love him? He had been so stupid and selfish. He reached for the phone and dialed her number. It was the first time he allowed himself to hope. “Theo? It’s been a long time; too long. I have something to tell… ask you. Would you be able to make time for a fool like me? Maybe meet for lunch?” Silently, in his heart, he prayed, “I love her and I want to learn how to love like she does. I want to love you. Thank you, God, for not allowing me to keep the Book unopened.” |
|
| Unopened glenlee10@sky.com |
#2 of 5 Winner |
| 127 words | |
| It swells, layer on layer on layer of furled chiffon velvet, tight whorls of petals-to-be, but the bud’s autumn coat, translucent thin, is too fine to keep its fragile heart safe from the cool night airs that probe and chill delicate growth. Sap, on tap, warmed by the photosynthesising sun, coloured leaves green and flushed buds gentle pink. At the season’s turn, sap slows, becomes sluggish. Vital pathways die, and begrudge the passage of liquor. The rose’s last bud waits for birth but like a child dying in the womb, its only future is decay; perfection and potential irrelevant. Too cold, the bud will never mature. The flower will never dance in the breeze of a butterfly’s wings; will never offer itself to a honey bee’s quest. Its membranous coat browns at the edges. Out of the sight, the petals are rotting and the bud will wither, Unopened. |
|
| Unopened DaNice D. Marshall poohbkae@comcast.net |
#3 of 5 Runner-up |
| 1154 words | |
| At seventeen years old, Vanessa Shelby had gone to a
grand total of three school dances. Each time she had been chaperoned by her
mother. Mrs. Shelby, like most mothers was a bit over-protective of her
daughter and paranoid about what boys wanted. Then there was the strange thing
about Mrs. Shelby, the way she practiced her gardening, in which she nurtured
only the flowering plant buds, never its flowers. At the end stage of budding, just as the hint of color emerged, Mrs. Shelby would clip the bud and corterize the stem with a sugary paste. She then talked and soothed the plant, as any other gardener would do with a prized bloom, but of course there would never be a flower. It was an arduous task, this preemptive strike against nature and blooming buds, but Mrs. Shelby carried out her duties gallantly, and the buds in her garden momentarily tipped with color, reminded the casual passerby of an artist's paintbrush lightly dipped in paint. Of course, there had been times when rainfall and sunshine came in equal amounts, and it had been quite the task to keep up with the budding plants. There was always the dreaded flowering of a bud during the night, and it was then that Mrs. Shelby showed the most tenacity. Sometimes she would wake Vanessa from a sound sleep, to accompany her out into the garden. Together, by moonlight, they would silently clip the buds. It was at these trying times, when Vanessa felt the greatest misfortune of having been born, the daughter of Mrs. Beatrice Shelby. To the best of her knowledge, Vanessa had no relatives, but one cousin named Miss Dahlilia Macon, who was her mother's distant cousin. Old enough to be Mrs. Shelby's mother, Dahlilia lived 120 miles away in distant Florence, Mississippi. It was rumored that Vanessa's father had died picking flowers, which was supposedly why Mrs. Shelby despised the sight of a flower in bloom. Vanessa thought it had more to do with love, and the soft touch of a flower's petal against the skin. But whatever the reason, there really wasn't any way to discredit the fact that Mr. Shelby had died while Mrs. Shelby was busy giving birth to Vanessa, and just as the crown of Vanessa's head emerged, Mr. Shelby had died. It was at the very moment when he had selected a fuchsia colored rose, and named it the Shelby Rose as he gasped his last breath. But no one had ever seen the rose, and no picture was ever taken to prove its existence. Still, there was Mrs. Shelby in her garden with her shears, hell bent that no flower would ever bloom again. "Unopened," she said, and smiled pleasantly at Vanessa and reached over to tuck a wisp of hair behind Vanessa's ear. "That's best, all around," she sighed. "Now, I'll be gone only for the day and I'll be home by evening. God willing, Cousin Dahlilia's near death and it just wouldn't be right for her to meet her maker without a family member to say goodbye. Really Nessa," she called her daughter by her pet name. "I do wish you would come with me." "I'll be fine," Vanessa said, perhaps a bit too quickly, as Mrs. Shelby's eyes narrowed. "Really, Momma, I will." Then, at exactly ten O'clock Mrs. Shelby backed out of the driveway, with Vanessa waving goodbye, happy to finally, at long last to be alone. "I'll be home before nightfall," Mrs. Shelby called out. She wiggled her fingers "Toodaloo!" and drove away. Vanessa stood for a long time and watched after the car, watched in the direction of where the car had been, watched to be sure that it hadn't doubled back, watched to be certain, that her mother really had left her, finally alone. After more than an hour had passed, without a sign of her mother, Vanessa sighed and headed back into the house. She slowly dialed a telephone number that she knew by heart. She smiled contentedly, as she listened to the phone ringing on the other end. "Hello," she purred. "No, not here silly, I'll be there, just make sure you're there. See you then," she smiled and carefully set the phone receiver back onto the cradle and gazed dreamily out the window, at her mother's garden, where the buds had recently been clipped. Her mother would have wanted Vanessa to stay home. But the timeless tale of love, the notion of caring and being cared for, all appealed to Vanessa. So it happened in the back row of the downtown Monticello Theater. On the Wednesday afternoon, when Cousin Dahlilia was set to meet her maker and Mrs. Shelby finally left her daughter alone, Vanessa rode her bicycle to the movies, to the silver screen rerunning of Clark Gable in "Gone With The Wind". "Thank you God," Vanessa whispered, when Jason Whitley not only paid for the two movie tickets, but held the heavy brass door open for her, held and hand, and then ordered buttered popcorn for them to share. It was a perfect date. He led her to the back row of the theater, to his familiar seventh seat, with its detached screw and soft cushioned seat. Way in the back, in the dark, further than the other seats. "Oh!" Vanessa cooed, when Jason accidentally, on purpose knocked the popcorn into her lap. They both laughed, then picked up the popped kernels and she didn't mind when his hand lingered, then fingered areas of her being, that only she had explored. Vanessa knew what was happening. But she liked it. Still, she could hear her mother's voice. The voice of reason that instructed her to pull her plaid skirt back down. But Jason's voice warmly urged her along and she listened to only his voice. Until the film's musical score reached a loud concerto, then Vanessa had gone too far and she needed to believe him when he said, "I love you." Jason's tongue felt like her own, as he pulled her onto his lap. It was a long movie, and when the final credits rolled along and the house lights came up, Vanessa panicked. She grabbed at her skirt hem and sheepishly glanced about the theater, to see who might've seen them, but no one seemed to have noticed them at all. It was the most wonderful thing, the deflowering of Vanessa Shelby. Just before darkness fell around the buds, Mrs. Shelby arrived home. There would be no more chances for Vanessa to get away and Jason, tired of waiting found another girl. The days passed, each like the one before, until two hundred and seventy days had passed. And then, on that day when Vanessa's belly budded and the crown of an infant's head emerged, Mrs. Shelby looked about the room for her garden shears. |
|
| Unopened thomassbcampbelll@hotmail.com |
#4 of 5 |
| 942 words | |
| A same old morning at a small neat apartment. Alexis
made her bed carefully and put on the flowery pillow shams. Then the bathroom
and the hurried breakfast in her clean little nest, tastefully decorated in
line with her meager budget. Few people visited her there. She was still a
little nervous and shy about socializing due to her dark painful secret.
Loose pants and a bulky sweater covered her nice figure and her brown hair was tied back with a black scrunchie as she hurried to class. Students walked by, talking and laughing. Squirrels scampered among stately autumn trees and a soft breeze spread the scent of green grass. Alexis didn't care or notice. She was focused on her studies and keeping her grades up which she always did; nearly straight A. Afternoons found her at her part time job at the Common Grounds, one of the new trend of coffeehouses with comfy chairs and couches, laptops and lattes where the easygoing unconventional intellectuals quietly congregated. It was a soothing atmosphere for Alexis, even during the hectic work times. People smiled at her sometimes. Occasionally a boy would chat with her and ask her out, but she shrunk away politely. Today was Friday with the weekend coming up. Alexis looked forward to some recreational reading, watching a couple of the tv shows she could stand, while making something yummy like an eggplant casserole. This Friday would be different. It was noisy across the hall. She peered out of her door and heard festivity coming from Lily and Andi's apartment. Lily was a robust redhead, brassy and funny - everything that Alexis wasn't, but they liked each other anyhow and had shared a few conversations in the hallway. Alexis was hoping they could turn the music down a little and walked over to knock timidly, then louder at the door. Lily answered. 'Alexis! You beautiful wallflower. Come in and meet my friends.' A few dancers whirled about, a few clumps of people were talking loudly over the music and the was a lot of laughter. Andi pressed a drink into her hand which she found out later was a champagne stinger: champagne, vodka, and tangerine juice. After a few sips and after being introduced to several people, Alexis began to feel more at home conversing with this party crowd. Then it hit her, they were all women. Since the incident, Alexis had always preferred the company of girls. She liked some of the clothing styles, though she wouldn't dare wear them herself, and she had longed to strike up a few friendships, or even one good friend, but she never had the courage. This group was outgoing and fun, socially and politically aware, and seemed to have no pretensions or facades. Of course, they must all be lesbians. 'How did you get Miss Prim to come over here?' asked Andi, eyeing Alexis chatting and giggling with one lively group. 'I didn't ask her,' Lily replied. 'I just opened the door and there she was.' 'She's hot,' another one said. 'I think I'll go over and talk to her.' Lily stopped them with outstretched arms. 'Back off girls. She's my friend.' 'So nice of you to drop by, honey. You slip in and out of the building so quietly we've hardly had a chance to talk. You know me, the troublemaker with the crazy friends.' Alexis had to laugh at that. They sat on a secondhand but soft couch for a long while. Occassionally one or two girls would stop by and exchange some banter. Alexis even got in a wry comment a few times which usually resulted in laughter all around. Mostly the two of them just chatted. Girl stuff, school, and then more personal things. During one stretch that Lily was listenening to intently, Alexis gave a couple of sobs and ran out the door, Lily following. As they sat on her bed, Alexis dabbed tears from her cheeks and explained. 'I'm sorry I bolted and then got emotional. I've never been very social. Ever since I was raped last year, I'm afraid of relationships and people, especially men.' That's a good way to approach it but you can have some new friends now; girls who would cut off this guys grapes with pinking shears if they knew who he was.' Alexis giggled at this. Lily put her arm around her and gently kissed away the last of her tears. Then she kissed her briefly on her lips. Alexis opened her eyes a little, but didn't shy away. Her back and neck were being stroked as if she were a frightened puppy. She took Lily's hand in hers. 'That's the spirit, Sweetie. Find your confidence - be a grrrl.' Alexis laughed at the way Lily rolled those r's in mock ferociousness, then impulsively gave Lily a longer kiss. Forty-five minutes later, amid tangled sheets, Alexis purred from the tenderness and passion of their loving and said she wanted to do it again. 'Tomorrow, Babe. I have a roomful of guests and the party's just warming up. You coming?' 'You betcha! Thanks for, well being you. I was afraid of being me, afraid of what people might think.' Dressed again and with a quick brush through each other's hair, they were standing in front of Lily's door, listening to the raucous revelry, Lily put her arms around Alexis's waist and said: 'You know, Sweetie. We've been gone so long, the girls will think we've been up to something.' 'Let them,' giggled Alexis and with that she gave Lily one more kiss, smoothed down her skirt, and strode through the door. |
|
| Unopened Nancy J Schneider njswritingnook@yahoo.com |
#5 of 5 |
| 2377 words | |
| Kelly spun away from the cupboard. “D-a-a-a-d, you
promised! You promise and promise and promise, but it means nothing.”
“Hush now Kelly. I didn’t break my promise. Take a good look, it’s still unopened.” “Yea, but it’s there, which means it will be opened.” Hank shook his head, “Not this time, Kelly, not this time. It’s been six months and this time there‘s a difference and …” “I don’t believe you anymore. You were doing so good, I thought maybe, just maybe you were going to make it this time. But I don’t believe you anymore.” “If you’ll let me explain …” “No. I’m done listening to you. I should have known better. Mom was right, you’ll never quit.” Kelly grabbed her sweater and purse and ran down the hall. “Kelly, come back. There’s a method to my seemingly madness.” But all Hank saw was Kelly’s backside, the front door open and then he heard it slam shut. She was gone. And he was alone again. After taking a long look at the bottle, he reached out and gently closed the cupboard. Was he right? Or was Kelly right? Would he be able to beat it this time? Was this idea just a foolish postponement of the inevitable? Hank shook his head. “No, this time it has to be different. I have to believe I can do it. Justin said it was possible!” Ah yes, Justin. He remembered it clearly. He’d just been tossed out of Red’s Bar and was literally sitting on the curb feeling sorry for himself. Then he heard someone say, “Hey, are you all right my friend?” He turned his head slightly to the left and saw a pair of scruffy tennis shoes. “Yea Imm fine. Don’ worry ‘bout me.” Hank felt a hand on his shoulder and the voice said, “Let me help you up.” Again Hank glanced at the shoes. “Jus’ leave me ‘lone, I’ll be awrigh‘.” “C’mon buddy, let me help you.” “You ain’t no cop cause cops don’ wear dirty tennis shoes. Jus’ let me be,” Hank said as he tried to push the man’s hand off his shoulder. Suddenly the man burst out laughing. “You got that right my friend. I ain’t no cop. Here, let me help you.” With that he grabbed Hank under the arm and tugged him to his feet. For the first time Hank looked at the man behind the voice. Not too young but not old, clean shaven, on the tall, lean side and wearing a huge smile. “So you buyin’ or wha’?” Hank slurred. “Nope, I’m not buying. I’m taking you home.” “Don’ wanna go home. Nothin’ there.” “Then how about coming home with me? I live right around the corner. You can freshen up and then we can get something to eat. I’m famished and I don’t like to eat alone. That sound ok to you?” “Na’ hungry. Jus’ tired.” “Then you can rest awhile. C’mon friend, walk with me.” It was quite a comic scene, the two men staggering down the sidewalk. Hank was by no means a small man and it was difficult to keep him upright. Thankfully it wasn’t a long walk. As soon as they got inside Hank flopped on the couch. From what he could see, it looked like a typical man’s apartment, no frilly stuff anywhere, no women. Then again, Hank wasn’t exactly seeing things clearly. He tried to focus on his benefactor, but the man kept moving around. “So, whaz your name? An’ why da ya care?” Hank mumbled. “Name’s Justin and I care because I understand.” “I don’ b’lieve that. Nobody cares ‘bout me.” “Not true my friend, not true. What you need right now is some rest. We can talk later.” But the advice wasn’t heard as Hank was already asleep. His head was thrown back against the couch, his mouth wide open and his body was totally relaxed. Justin lifted Hank’s feet and pulled his body into a reclining position. Justin got a blanket and covered him. He stood looking down at the man, then bowed his head for a silent prayer. Hank would need all the prayers he could get. The next time Hank opened his eyes, the sun was shining and he could smell fresh coffee. He squinted around the room trying to figure out where the heck he was. His mouth felt full of cotton and the smell of coffee made his stomach growl. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Heck, he couldn’t even remember where he was or how he got here. With a groan, he tried to shift to a sitting position, but it wasn’t an easy chore. His head was spinning and so were his kidneys. “Morning Hank, happy to see you’re among the living. The bathroom‘s the first door on the left,” Justin said with a tip of his head. Hank managed to get to his feet, pulled his pants up a notch higher and stumbled to the bathroom. While in there, he took a good look in the mirror. Yep, it was still his face, even with the growth on his chin. But his eyes definitely weren’t any too bright. He splashed some water on his face and used his finger as a toothbrush. He tried to finger comb his hair but it didn’t help much. Man, his body odor was as foul as his clothes. He wondered how long it’d been since he showered or changed clothes. And where the heck was he anyway? Only one way to find out. He got to the kitchen and stood there a second trying to place the surroundings. He was pretty sure he’d never been here before. The guy at the sink turned and said, “I’ve got some eggs and toast almost ready. Hitch up a chair and pour yourself some coffee.” “Who the hell are you and why am I here?” “We met last night. You were in no shape to go home so I invited you to come to my place. Hank, you looked like you needed a friend.” “How do you know my name? And I‘ve got lots of friends.” Justin paused a moment then said, “You told me your name. But let me ask you - where were your friends when you needed them? A friend wouldn’t let a friend stranded on a curb.” “I’m used to it. But what made you stop? I don‘t know you.” “Because I think you need help.” “Oh, so you’re some do-gooder eh? Holier than thou? Going to help straighten out the drunk? Well, I don’t need your help.” Justin didn’t say a word, merely slid some eggs on a plate, added the toast and indicated a place to sit. It did smell good and Hank’s stomach begged him to swallow his pride. “Id rather have a nip of the dog that bit me …” But he did sit down. He picked up a fork but before it reached his lips, Justin said a short prayer. Hank’s hand paused and he swallowed the lump in his throat. It had been a long time since he heard a prayer uttered before a meal. They ate in relative silence and when finished, Justin pushed back his chair and looked Hank right in the eye. “So, what’s your story?” Hank studied the man before answering. There was something calming about this man. But he couldn’t remember his name. “What’s your name again?” “Justin, my name’s Justin.” “Ok Justin, I don’t understand you but there’s something … I don’t know what.” Hank shook his head. “My story? Not much different than any other alcoholic. I used to be head foreman at LBJ Construction. Got a good salary, had a wonderful wife, two kids, a dog, a nice home in a nice neighborhood and now I don’t. End of story.” “What happened?” “The usual. I turned more and more often to the bottle, made some mistakes at work, lost my job, then couldn’t find another one and then lost my wife. She got the house and kids and I got the bottle. That’s all that’s left - the bottle.” “Ever try Alcoholics Anonymous?” “You mean that twelve step thing? Meditation and all that crap? Nah, I don’t think it’d help.” “How do you know if you don’t try? But I guess first I have to ask, do you want to quit drinking?” Hank opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again. After a time he said honestly, “I don’t know. It’s all I got left. No job, my wife re-married, sold the house, even took the dog and I’ve got nothing to quit for.” “What about the kids?” “Kelly? My daughter Kelly would be worth it, but she hates me. And Mike has his own life. He doesn’t need an old drunk hanging around.” “Not a drunk, no, but a Dad? They both need a Dad.” Hank rubbed his hand across his jaw, then looked at Justin. “It’s too late. I’ve lost them.” “It’s never too late. If you want it bad enough, you can do it. I’m not here to judge, just support you. I’ll help.” “You some kind of mentor from AA or something? Why do you want to help me? I don’t even know you. And bottom line, I don’t think I can do it.” “You can’t - you can’t do it by yourself. Few people can. But AA can help. The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking. You’ve already admitted you are powerless over alcohol. Now you need to believe that a Power greater than you can restore you. I noticed that you respected it when I said a prayer, so you must believe in some Power, or God.” “I used to, heck I used to pray all the time. Then things went south and I quit. God wasn’t interested in helping a sinner like me.” “We’re all sinners Hank. Each and every human on earth is a sinner. And God does care, He is interested. He’ll help if you’ll let Him. He sent His Son to pay the penalty for all our sins. If He cared enough to do that, don’t you think He can help you with this problem?” “So what do I do? How do I resist the urge? I’ve tried so many things but I always fall back on my old habits. It’s ok for a while, but then things get tough and I cave. I’ve even done the throw-out-any-liquor-in-the-house and almost went berserk when I wanted a drink. Almost killed myself driving to the nearest liquor store to get a bottle.” “Think of it this way. Don’t look at the big picture. Just stay away from one drink. Then take it one day at a time. One drink, that’s all you have to resist. Then there’s the unopened bottle theory. You keep a bottle in the house, but keep it unopened. It’s there if you really need it. It doesn’t work for everyone but I’ve found that the unopened bottle helps folks remember that all they have to do is resist one drink. Only one Hank, only one. Each time you find yourself reaching for that bottle, think ‘I only need to resist one drink.’ Then ask God to help you and He will. It won’t be easy, but you can do it with God’s help, my help and a strong desire to quit.” So Hank tried. He got the bottle, kept it sealed, attended AA meetings and cleaned himself up. He started attending church with Justin and felt better. It wasn’t easy and a couple times he slipped. Each time Justin was there, pulling him back. Eventually it got easier and longer between bouts. He now had a job working construction, found a nicer apartment and had contact with Kelly. But that didn’t go well at all. She saw the bottle and figured he was drinking again. He almost gave in but instead called his mentor Justin. “She never let me explain. I want her to know I’ve been clean for six months. I’ve tried to call, but she won’t talk to me. She hung up as soon as she knew it was me. It’s important Justin that she knows I’m doing it.” “Try to understand from Kelly’s point of view. You have promised before, and you have failed. She’s afraid to believe it because she doesn’t want to get hurt. But she does love you Hank. Write her a letter. I agree that it’s important for Kelly to see the change. If you can reestablish your contact with your kids, it will help. You write the letter and tell it from the heart. Admit that you let her down but you are definitely sticking to it this time. If necessary I’ll contact her to help her understand. Just trust Hank, you can do it. You’re not alone. God will help you.” “And you? Will you be there to pick up the pieces?” “I’ll be here as long as you need me. Now go write that letter.” So Hank wrote the letter and Kelly was skeptical but willing to try again. After a year Hank was still a recovering alcoholic. He met Justin at a small café and wanted to set a date to celebrate his year anniversary. He wanted Justin to meet his kids and he wanted his kids to meet Justin. “I’m proud of you Hank, you are on the mend. Your Kelly and Mike are comfortable with you and you’ve made great strides. You have more confidence and you know God’s forgiven you. As long as you remember to stay away from that one drink and trust God to help, you’ll make it. It was a great day when I met you.” Hank bent over to tie his shoe and said, “You know something? I don’t know your last name. After all this time you never told me. So what’s your last name anyway? I want to put it on the invitation.” “Time. My last name is Time.” “Time? That’s a strange name. Justin Time. Hey you could make a joke of it. You know …” Hank turned to smile at his friend, but there was no one there. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club