Writing Prompt: Antiquing
Imagine that you or a character are visiting an antique mall. You wander the aisles, imagining the items crowding each booth—old books, costume jewelry, rolltop desks, typewriters, pocket knives, wooden trains, arrowheads, candlesticks, silverware sets, china dolls, Depression glass cups (just to name a few). You select three items and purchase them. When you get home, however, you notice something odd about one of the items.
Memories filled each room of the store. Not mine. These belonged to other people, most of them long gone. I don’t know why I keep coming to these places. It just hurts me in the end. Clinging, I guess. The first one I found was a pocket watch. It clicked softly, a tip-toeing kind of sound, whispering out the passing of each moment into the next. Each artificially segregated from the others by an etched and inked line in the face. My dad would have loved this. Next, was a doll. It was a pale fabric, washed out from exposure to the sun. It looked strange next to my dark hands. Black thread flowed from the peak of its head, and it wore a little navy blue dress. It looked oddly sad with its vacant black eyes. Finally, I found an old necklace. It didn’t look like much. The chain was tarnished, and the gem, a deep green emerald, was chipped. It drew me though. I looked around for the cashier, but couldn’t find him. I left some cash and my number on the front table, in case the cash wasn’t enough.
——-
“Dad, what are you doing here?” she asked me after walking in with her work bags.
“Hey Katy. What do you mean what am I doing here? This is my house.”
She sighed, gave me a gentle smile and a hug. “Dad, I’m sorry I have to tell you this again. This used to be your house, but you moved out, remember?”
“Moved out? Hm.” There was flash of anger, frustration, but than some memories. Fragments.
“Yeah, 10 years ago. You and mom lived out East for a bit. Then you came back here to live at the Residence. You must have gotten lost and wandered back here.” I just looked down. How do you reply to something like that. I changed the subject, or at least I tried.
“I bought this for you, Katy. A necklace. I guess it’s in rough shape, but I think that gives it character, no?”
“Dad, this is Mom’s. You keep it on your dresser at the Residence. Where did you get these other things?”
“What? I was at an antique shop. All of it was there. Why would they have your mother’s necklace?”
“Oh no, Dad. You must have been wandering into other people’s rooms.” She looked sad. Tired. “Come on, Dad. Lets get you back home. I can stay with you for dinner. It will be nice.”
I followed her to the car and she drove me back. I guess I always follow her and she always drives me back. The doll and the watch, I guess I was right about those. Other peoples’ memories. The necklace, though, was mine. At least for a moment. Until I lost it again.
To me, the first part was a little sketchy. I wasn’t sure where you were going with it…but then the second part tied everything together in a nice, neat little package. Very nice work.
Excellent piece. My mother had moments like these.
Great piece. Sad. But sweet. I especially liked the watch. The way you described how it kept time. Whimsical. Great job!
When I spied the old Royal sitting in the corner, sporting a fine layer of dust, or as my wife likes to call it… a protective cover, I knew I had to have it. After years of yard saling, auctioning, flea marketing, and antiquing, I have learned to limit myself. No more than three items from any one given place.
The dilemma is real; do I put back the vintage Christmas Angel tree topper, the primitive campfire toaster, or the ancient rotary reel push mower? Gazing through the plate glass window of ‘Old ‘N Stuffy’, the newest antique store in Bloomfield, Michigan, my decision was as clear as the sky is blue. The reel mower just won’t fit in the trunk of my little Toyota Yaris.
I regrettably returned the mower to its previous spot and skipped back over to the typewriter. The shady looking clerk mentioned that this particular typewriter was purchased at the estate sale of a local known Mafioso. I played along, eweing and aweing when necessary.
Unpacking at home, I got the tote of Christmas ornaments out of the attic and placed my new old Angel inside, sealing it back up. Next weekend when we head to camp, the toaster will go with us, so it sets on the end of the dining room table until then.
Heading to my office in the basement, the Royal was as heavy and cumbersome as I remember from when Mom would take me to her sisters when she needed a ‘professionally’ typed paper. Aunt Millie was a transcriptionist of some sort, and the Royal was her choice of machine.
I’m not sure how I missed it earlier, but there was a piece of paper still wrapped around the platen. I spun the adjustment nut, released the leaf , and stared at what was typed there.
“I killed Jimmy Hoffa.”
Giggling, I couldn’t help but wonder… was the clerk being serious or was it just a sales pitch? I had to know more. I lifted the spool cover and pulled each cartridge from its post. Slowly and deliberately I unwound the ribbon off the take-up reel, working backwards, inspecting the slightest indents, trying to determine which letter had struck the blackened tape.
E…N…I…T…L…
I was getting closer now.
A…V…O…R
The tension was terrible.
U…O…Y…K…N…I…R
What was it?
D…O…T…E…R…U…S…E…B…
“Be sure to drink your Ovaltine. Ovaltine? A crumby commercial? Son of a bitch!”
And you didn’t even need a decoder ring. I like the mafioso connection too. Brings out that made in Italy line.
So very clever. I’d forgotten “reading” typewriter ribbons. I still drink Ovaltine because of Captain Midnight.
I love the Christmas story tie-in. And was the Royal a shout out to Paul Sheldon and Annie Wilks? Well written, great pace. Good job!
Bit long, I know, I know…
—————
I was making tea in the store when the shop bell rang. It always made me smile, not just because it meant business, but because it reminded me of the holidays when I used spend time with Dad in the shop. Just me and Dad, oh and Lola of course. She calls herself Lola; her real name is Marjory Enderby and she runs the alternative therapy boutique next door. She still comes round most lunchtimes, adorned in jewelry, nothing brash, all quite eclectic. We together eat in the store and then give the springs in Dad’s old sofa a work out. She’s ten years older, perhaps fifteen, but worth every second.
I made for the front desk through the perpetual dusk of the shop, the tiers of under-lit cabinets holding their precious things, like disparate galaxies in the relative gloom. I hadn’t planned on getting into antiques, but I’d learnt from Dad and he was so meticulous that when I came in, when he was too ill before he died, everything was so well ordered it was just too easy to carry on. Everything in its place, everything ordered.
And then you turn a corner and come across something like Maurice, a six foot stuffed Black bear from the Caucuses, looking a darn sight worse than if he’d just been left to rot in the forest, but Dad kept him, and the hideous ventriloquist dummies; that was Dad, order and chaos – good chaos. Maurice and Mum never got on so it was just the two of us.
I recognised the figure at the counter, even backlit by the shop window as he had a slight stoop, something left over from a childhood illness I’d guessed.
‘Mr Hoskins, pleasure to see you again. What can I help you with today?’
The old gentleman coughed and took out a ring box from the pocket of his tatty expensive tweed jacket. I recognised it instantly because I remembered the ring inside. It was unusual; unusual because I’d found it down the back of the sofa clearing out the store after Dad died and because it had a sort of scarab setting, 1920s I’d reckoned. At the time I hadn’t even priced it, just slung it in the cabinet with the rest. I think I charged him £120?
‘Yes, I bought this ring last week and I was going to get it engraved to give to my wife when I realised it already has an engraving. See? I just wondered, before I had it removed, if you knew if it had any significance.’
I hadn’t noticed to be frank. I looked around the inside: there were two sets of initials either side of an ankh – ES and ME. I shrugged and gave a light laugh.
‘Well, it means nothing to me, but funnily enough the first set of initials could be…’ I trailed off. I had just caught sight of Lola crossing the street; she carried a bag-for-life, the wind pushing her tie-dye dress against her yoga firm frame and defiant breasts. Through the gold lettering on the window spelling out ‘E. Saul Antiques’, I saw her blow a kiss toward the shop before heading next door. I watched her until she disappeared.
‘Mr Saul, Mr Saul?’ Hoskins was speaking. I snapped out of my trance and hurriedly put my hand to my face, both to hide my mouth and to press down my cheeks which pushed toward the ceiling.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Hoskins,’ I said, unable now to stop the smirk taking hold. ‘I really can’t help.’
He gave me a funny look as I turned and chuckled quietly at nothing. He left.
From the back of the shop I swear I saw Maurice wink at me and I knew it was going to be an interesting lunch the next day.
The color in the story is excellent and brish. I am not sure.if the ring is his dad’s and Lola bit I think it is. It’s also possible she was sleeping with both father and son. Either way it’s a poignant story.
The color in the story is excellent and brish. I am not sure.if the ring is his dad’s and Lola bit I think it is. It’s also possible she was sleeping with both father and son. Either way it’s a very poignant story.
Sounds as if Mr. Saul, Junior, inherited more than a store from Senior. I suspect Maurice has seen a lot through the years. Fun story.
In my opinion, and I am an expert, every antique mall smells the same. They all smell like wood oil, mothballs, and dust. And I happen to think it is the most wonderful smell in the world. For me, it is the smell of exploration and discovery.
Today my hunt is taking place in a brick building just west of downtown Cleveland. I am in town to do a lecture at Case Western on the “Impact of mass-produced glassware on social mobility in post Civil War America.” Digging deep to find some modern relevance in what most people consider garbage, is how I make enough money to travel the country and dig through the detritus of other people’s lives, searching for treasure. Today’s search is not going well, this store is a disappointment.
One more aisle to go and then its back to the rental car empty handed. But wait. This is special. In the back corner, there is a display for nothing but boxes. Score. A handwritten sign suspended from the ceiling says “All Boxes, $2.50 Each.” This is what I live for.
Before me; on shelves, stacked on tables, piled on the floor; is a cache of wonderful boxes of all shapes and sizes. Cigar. Jewelry. Bread. Lunch. Some are inlaid with mother of pearl and exotic woods. Others are stamped sheet metal. It is time to start digging.
It is three hours later and I have my three prizes displayed in the middle of my hotel room bed. The excitement of bagging my prey has faded a bit. It is time to see, with a clearer head, to see what I really bought.
The smallest purchase is a cigar box from around 1920. I chose it because it has a horribly racist portrayal of an Indian chief on the lid.. Scenes of natives hunting and smoking oversized peace pipes in wigwams surround the portrait. I can get a complete lecture on the use of racial stereotypes in nascent consumer advertising from this find. Fantastic.
Next is a simple workers lunchbox. The bright red paint is only slightly chipped. This piece is an iconic representation from a time when America was the manufacturer to the world. “Made in the USA” is clearly stamped into the bottom. I’ll have to think about it, but I think this might fit into my lecture on consumerism in blue-collar communities.
Last is an elaborate wooden jewelry box. I picked it because it reminded me of the one my mother had kept on her dressing table. The top is inlaid with scenes from the Italian countryside. Sometimes you can find jewelry hidden inside. Time to look.
What is this? Under the tray is a single letter. I love finding letters and notes. I put the box on the bed and head to the overstuffed chair by the window and begin to read. it is dated July 7th, 1969 and, oh crap, it is addressed to Christine. Creepy. My mom’s name.
Dearest Christine,
I want to drop you a quick note before we head out. This is my last day in-country. Tomorrow I get on a Huey and head home. Home to you and Jeff. I can’t wait to hold you and see how much he has grown.
This should be a milk run. Going to a village a few kliks away that another village ratted on. Said they are hiding VC. Probably just a fight between neighbors.
I’ll write about how boring it is when I get back tonight.
Love You,
Mark
Yes. My father’s name was Mark, and yes he was killed in Vietnam on July 7th, 1969 on his last day there. Yes, I’m sobbing.
Sometimes you find treasure in an antique mall. And sometimes you find yourself.
I like how you placed the prompt within the professional context, made it very believable before the introduction of the letter. Nicely done.
70. The Invasion
[A timeline skip! And a commentary on contemporary events. You can see a listing of the Darth Barbara saga chapters—all of which are posted under WD prompts—by clicking on my name above.]
“Mikhail!” Barbara was excessively happy to recognize him in the Ghazhiik marketplace. Befitting the enormous power that had crept up on her, there were so many demands on her expertise, opinions, and diktats that she just needed to get away and clear her head. To a non-Union planet several jumps away. It was just too primitive for the Union to bother invading. Also, once a planet was occupied, it did not function very well as a head-clearing getaway.
“Barbara? Oh! Well, that makes it official: this is a simulation.”
“I’m getting old,” Barbara thought to herself when she realized she smiled at Mikhail’s conspiratorial goofiness. “You’re getting old!” she said, instead.
“And you are alive! Well, that’s another six logs lost on a bet.”
“Unless I’m a simulation.”
“If you are a simulation, you see, then this world is real,” he quipped.
Barbara chortled. “So, I hear you’re in trades now?”
“Oh, I’m still running a nonprofit. Historycharters. Heard of us?”
“No.”
“Good. We need to be… secretive… for our mission to work.”
“Which is…”
“I cannot tell you that, Ambassador.” Instead, he held up an object.
It was a small ball encased in a larger, distorted ball, with a view panel of some sort around the equator. “What is that?” The view panel seemed to be malfunctioning.
“It’s an old Earthling tradegood, made only for export to primitives: a gyroscopic accelerometer.”
“A what?”
“It’s like a Bose interferometer. And this…” He held up two wooden sticks held together with metal chain.
“No clue.”
“I’m not sure, either. I think it was a farming equipment. Now, this, I have never seen, and never heard of.” It was a vaguely cylindrical metallic thing in two colors.
“These are all from Earth!”
“Yes! These have been scattered by Earthlings all over the galaxy. Even on backwoods planets.”
“And you collect them?”
“These are valuable artifacts! Giving us insight into untold Earthling history.”
Barbara would have thought that that was what databanks were for. “Don’t you… I mean… at this point, they’re just garbage, right?”
“Well, yes, but, as the saying goes, ‘You can judge a civilization by its garbage.’”
Barbara scoffed. That sounded like a really dumb platitude.
At the same time, it made sense. Whatever a society treats as the least worthy speaks volumes about what they truly value, regardless of what they purport to value.
“So, you free for dinner?”
“Sure! Let me…” Mikhail tried to put his finds back in his satchel, but dropped the metallic antique, which started fuming noxiously from the middle.
Instinctively, Barbara grabbed Mikhail and ran away as quickly as she could.
Once they reached high ground, Barbara and Mikhail turned to see what had happened.
The metallic antique had burst open, covering the bulk of the marketplace in a dense cloud, which was quickly spreading across the city.
Hundreds of dead and suffering Ghazhiiks everywhere. Soon to be thousands.
“What… What happened?” asked Mikhail.
“Essentially, Mikhail, we just invaded Ghazhii.”
[The three objects: a Dyna-Flex, a nunchuck, and a tear gas canister.]
I do appreciate how each week you post such detailed and creative additions to your saga. Really liked the simulation vs reality discussion and the Bose reference.
Thanks!
I do want some input. It occurred to me, maybe Mikhail’s the one who is the really in charge of the whole thing, and has been manipulating Barbara all along… But that also seems like a cliché: the nice guy turning out to be evil, or a benevolent overlord/god who assumes a humble form, or an insignificant character turning out to be very important… A gotcha-moment…
I rather like him as a kinda’-not-completely-pulled-together do-gooder who keeps popping back into her life, unwittingly aiding and abetting her in her quests. Like the Sandi-drone. I might bring back one of her other ex-lovers, too.
What do you think?
A New Tradition
Carmen frowned. She rubbed her forefinger over several weblike cracks on the rolltop desk’s tambour enclosure. Upon seeing the desk, she fell in love. The desk was locked so the shopkeeper had to rummage though unmarked keys that belonged to his other antiques he sold to find the one that would fit the desk.
Carmen felt the baby kick; she was seven months pregnant. She interpreted the kick as a sign that the baby loved the desk as much as she did. While the shopkeeper was trying one key after another, Carmen spotted Nick, her husband – where else – flipping through the vintage comics. She’ll never get his attention.
To both Carmen’s and the shopkeeper’s astonishment, when he slid open the tambour, a smaller rolltop desk sat in there like a Russian nesting doll. The shopkeeper explained that this was a salesman’s sample desk that he had carried from house to house, showing off the exquisite craftsmanship, hoping to dazzle the customer into ordering the full sized desk.
Before leaving the store, in addition to the antique desk, Carmen and Nick bought a 1889 Game of Logomachy or War of Words which contained a set of seventy-two color picture cards with letters.
When they arrived home, Carmen cleared a corner in the living room for the desk. Carmen noticed, on the full sized desk, etched in the wood, the letters SA and the date 1889. She placed the salesman’s sample on the coffee table for a conversation piece – a coffee table desk.
“It’s as if the desk just gave birth.” Nick quipped.
Meanwhile, Nick was setting up the Logomachy game, counting the picture cards. The game didn’t include directions so they had to wing it. During the game, as Nick was picking up a card, it slipped out of his fingers and landed under the desk. He got down on all fours to reach under the desk, when he noticed a lever. He pulled the lever. A book dropped on the floor.
“It’s taking you a long time finding that card.”
“I found a book.” Nick rose to his feet and triumphantly waved the book as if he had discovered a new continent. He flipped through it.
“It looks like a diary.” He opened it to the first page. “Sophronia Ashton 1889.”
He started to read the first entry out loud.
“You can’t do that!”
“Why?”
“A diary is private.”
“Relax, she’s been dead for a long time.”
This started their own war of words; they didn’t need to continue with the game.
Carmen was livid as Nick continued to read.
“Nicholas!”
Without glancing up, his face grew ashen; he grimaced, sat back down, eyes riveted, turning each page slowly, reading to himself.
“What is it?” Her voice lowered. “You’re scaring me.”
He gazed up, meeting her eyes.
“Sophronia gave birth to a little girl. She died shortly after.”
Six months later, Carmen pushed her little girl, Sophia in a stroller. She entered a stationery store and bought a diary, wrote her name – Carmen Rhodes – and the date. When she came home, she etched her initials CR under SA on the desk, leaving room for her daughter, Sophia Rhodes to continue the tradition.
Nice story. I like the way you’ve paced it. I am confused as to who died shortly after, Sophronia or her little girl, but I love the use of the name Sophia for Carmen’s baby. It kind of brings the story full circle.
Good job. I also wonder who died. This could be a prologue for adult Sophia looking into her murky past.
“Children, don’t touch anything in this store, although we know it’s tempting. Such a marvelous inventory.”
“Yes, Mother. Oh look! A stuffed owl with three eyes! I want it.”
“Hey! Father, she already has two of them! Why does she need another one?”
“None of your business, Pugsley. May I have it Mother?”
“Of course, Wednesday. Now you pick something for yourself, Pugsley.”
“How about this neat-o iron helmet with knives pointing inward. What do you think of this Uncle Fester?”
“Oh, I had one of those when I was your age. You’ll have loads of fun with that.”
“Can I have it Father?”
“Absolutely son! Now it’s your mother’s turn. Your wish is my command, my love. What shall it be?”
“Oh, Gomez, why don’t you select something for me?”
“As you wish, fire of my heart. Hmm, how about this Aborigine pleasure gourd?”
“Gomez! Put that down! The children will see!”
“Perhaps you’re right. How about this? His-and-her lobotomy electrodes.”
“Unnecessary, wouldn’t you say?”
“Ah, here’s what we need, Morticia! Let’s get this!”
“Oh, Gomez, you’re so right! Just looking at it is making me feel devilish!”
“And drop-dead gorgeous, my love!”
“Oh Gomez!”
“Father! What did you get for Mother?”
“Something she and I can both use.”
“Shall I show them, my love?”
“Oh, why not Gomez?”
“It’s a DVD. ‘Advanced Tango Lessons.”
“Father!”
“Gomez! Not right here!”
“Of course here, Cara Mia! Right here, right now, in the Mall!”
“Yes, oh yes, Gomez! In the Mall!”
As soon as Pugsley’s name was mentioned, I knew I was in for a treat. The timing and delivery was right on the money all the way through.
Terrific! Loved the dialogue.
This was solid. I loved it, all the way through a tango in the mall. I think I might treat my twenty-something year old children to the sight of their mother and father mall dancing this Christmas.
I was chuckling as I read this to my 15 year old daughter. After I was done, I looked to her and saw she had no idea who Pugsley, Tuesday, and the rest were. I failed miserably at trying to reproduce how Gomez would kiss up Morticia’s arm, but at least I finally got a laugh from her. Nice job bringing the oldies back for a brief episode.
I could see, hear, everything. Wonderful. I should check if old episodes are on YouTube.
“I cannot believe I’m here right now. Mom, what if someone sees me?” I said, nervously glancing around then crossing my arms. If anyone I knew happened to be here, too I would never hear the end of it. A 15 year old girl in an antique store?–unheard of.
“Cameron, if anyone you know is here, then they’d be just as uncool as you are.” My mom said, not really paying attention.
“Gee Mom, that really helped.” I said, rolling my eyes, then catching myself for fear of getting grounded.
“You can pick some things out. Just leave me alone for a bit while I shop, okay?”
I grumbled, then made my way down a different aisle. We were in an antique store, where tons of old useless things resided, and where the uncoolest of the uncool shopped. Like my mother.
I scanned the rows and rows of things that I’d barely heard of, let alone seen before. I rolled my eyes once more at the sheer level of annoyed I felt in that moment.
What was that–a typewriter? Weird. I put it in my shopping basket. A quill? Also weird. I put it in my shopping basket.
I walked deeper and deeper into the shelves, until suddenly, I saw a glint of something from the back of the store.
“Cameron? Cameron, Time to go sweetheart!” My mother called to me from far into the aisles. I briefly thought about how we should come up with nicknames while shopping her, so know one could hear my name uttered aloud in the vicinity. I ignored her, and followed the glint of light.
I ran into the last aisle of the store. It was that corner of every store where the lights aren’t as bright, time seems to come screeching to a halt, and no one else dares to tread besides little kids and 15 year old girls following weird glints of light that probably aren’t real.
I saw the glint one last time, and reached into the aisle. my fingers wrapped around something cool to the touch, something metal.
I pulled out a pocket knife, small but menacing looking. It had a little slip as a cover. I gasped and dropped the knife with a clatter on the floor. A cover with a name inscribed upon the handle.
My name.
The cover read, “Cameron Brilock.”
It was on the floor now. With a shaky hand, I reached down to pick up the knife, my mom’s screams of my name fading into the distance. The whole world seeming to fade into the distance.
Because when I picked up the knife….
Time stopped.
Wow, Brooke! Great job moving from typical teen boredom and potential humiliation to that ending. Might we know more?
thank you! and trust me, you’ll know more if the next prompt works with this…
Little Notes
Antiquing. My favorite pass time. But sometimes it saddened me. Most of these things come from estate sales when people die, and the family doesn’t know what to do with their possessions. The house must be emptied and sold so the remaining family can wallow in the revenue. Your dead and your family dumps everything to a used furniture store, and your life ends up in a heap with someone like me sifting through their precious things. Maybe the deceased wanted to keep things in the family.
Jay trudged along with me, awkwardly clutching a lamp and footstool I wanted. I prodded my way through a maze of furniture. I made my way to an old worn cherry table that caught my eye.
“See, Jay, this table holds memories of family meals, holidays, whatever. See the scratches and watermarks. All memories.” I spotted another exciting item tucked away in the corner. I began my journey as Jay pulled out a 1950’s dining room chair and plopped down on its yellowed plastic encasement.
“And look at this old desk idling in the corner. Someone wrote stories, letters, cards on this. Can’t you imagine it?”
My now impatient husband huffed, “I can imagine us in that restaurant across the street eating burgers.”
“Oooh, look at this,” I gushed after prying open one of the drawers.
” A box? How many more boxes do you need, DeDe?”
“Shush. Hand carved, from Italy. I love it.”
“You love everything old, worn and ragged. I wonder why,” Jay laughed.
I ran my fingers over the dusty etching of a random countryside embedded deep within the darkened surface. It was beautiful. I had to have this box. I cautiously wiggled the lid open. “Oh, wow, notes–from kids to their mother. I have to get this.”
“Get your find and let’s eat please.”
When we arrived home, I lit a fire, poured some wine and carefully examined my treasures. A little sanding and the footstool would be perfect. The lamp needs a little more TLC, but I’ll find a place for it. Something appeared different about the box. The carvings appeared more pronounced. The dust disappeared from their indentations. I lifted the cover. The fire heightened, warming the room. I carefully pulled out the notes. The ink was faded. Paper yellow and brittle. I read them all. Each child was offering their mom words or encouragement, statements of their love, gratitude for something she had done for them. I closed my eyes imagining her reading these. I could see her tilted head, tears in her eyes, clutching the paper to her heart. I folded them back to their original shape and went to place them back in their home. Suddenly, a soft voice filled the room.
“They meant everything to me.”
I searched the room — no one. Am I losing my mind?
“Don’t be frightened.”
“A little late for that. Who’s talking? Answer me,” I begged, turning my head in every direction. I placed the cover on the box. The room became chilled. That was odd. I slowly grasped the cover, inching it up from the sides. Warmth immediately returned. So did the voice.
“My children never knew I kept them.”
“What’s happening?” I nervously questioned, eying my empty wine glass, the possible culprit of my delusion.
“You’ve found my heart and allowed me to experience the joy that once filled my life.”
“Who are you?”
“Their mother.”
“Whose mother?”
The voice chuckled. “I’m Josephine. The mother to the three children who wrote those notes.”
“Ok, ‘Josephine.’ How are you talking to me?”
“Through the love, you released from my box. I’ve waited a long time to present myself to the proper owner. I sat in the damp, musty old warehouse for some years. Then, you came along. I knew the minute you caressed the box. I could feel your sensitivity, your awareness of what’s important in life, family, memories, traditions. Your thoughts and words warmed me. I knew you had to be the one to possess the most important things in my life — the love and gratitude of my children. Don’t some of your boxes contain things your children or grandchildren gave you?”
“Well, yes. But no one knows that.”
“I do. Let them know before you die, DeDe, this way they’ll see how meaningful their expression was to you. But I do hope you place something of your children, or grandchildren in my box. That would be special. I don’t plan on talking to you anymore, but everytime you open this box you will feel the warmth. The warmth that comes from the joy of being a mother.”
Clever and touching. heartfelt. Like a mom. Well done on the conveyance of emotion.
This is such a beautiful story for a dreary Thursday. It has everything it needs to be published. I loved it!
This is such a beautiful story for a dreary Thursday. It has everything it needs to be published. I loved it!
What a lovely, well written, story.
A LOVELY MURDER?
Betty and Bob Haverton were going to spend their anniversary at home and would take the money they saved and buy a combined gift for themselves.
“Bob, I saw an unusual antique shop on a street I’ve never seen before but didn’t stop. You know how we love antiques.”
“You’re on doll face, let’s go.”
‘This neighborhood is different than yesterday,’ Betty mused . When she stepped inside, eyes riveted on a fifties mannequin displayed at the front of the store. It was Bob that spoke first
“Hey doll face, let’s get the hot babe in the old wedding dress.
“Oh you would? You think she’s stunning because she looks like Sandy in Grease? Well. you’re on. She needs a prom dress and rhinestones everywhere.”
A hearty battle with the store owner, a pink prom dress with crinolines galore, a rhinestone bracelet, neckless and then earrings to match, took eleven hundred dollars and change but both were happy as kids. Sandy was difficult to cram in the back seat of the Lincoln but with help from the store, Bob and Betty were on their way home. Bob had to call a neighbor to help carry her in and took quite a ribbing
Finally, Sandy found her home at the fireplace mantle in the master bedroom. And then all hell broke loose.
“Bob, can you manage to get the wedding dress off Sandy?”
“Of course, don’t you rememb……………”
“Don’t start on that again. What’s wrong Bob? Your face has turned white.”
In a soft whisper,
“Betty, get over here. This doll or whatever it is happens to be anatomically correct”
“Oh for heaven sakes Bob, quit kidd…oh, oh why would some one do this, the creep?”
“You can finish this can’t you? I’ll be in the den.”
When Betty finished with the clothes, she put all the jewelry on Sandy and noticed a quiet quiver run through the mannequin’s body and swore to herself as she noticed one eye turn moist.
‘I don’t dare tell Bob about this, he’ll have me locked up’.
’
That night, both slept in the large den in two recliners. And since the next day, all was quiet, the bedroom was slept in that evening. Around four in the morning Betty was awakened with a light touch to her shoulder. Before she made a sound, Sandy put her finger to her lips and smiled at Betty. The two women quietly walked to the den, sat in the same chair .After a kiss or two, the passion rose in both. Caution was thrown to the winds.
The next day Sandy moved not a hair and Betty and Bob worked in their garden tilling a small area for a pair of exotic roses that Betty had purchased a few day ago. The subject of Sandy fell to the wayside and the couple went to bed early and made love. j And then again for good measure Around two in the morning, Sandy stood silently beside the king size bed and waited.
The gleam of the twelve inch carving knife showed for a second as it passed from Betty to Sandy. Betty left the room quietly and waited. In the dim light a figure walked slowly toward her. Betty moved not a muscle.
“You thought you had me, didn’t you doll face but I’m too clever for you.”
Betty pulled out a Glock with a silencer. “ Bob, you’re a boring pain in the ass.”
She fired five shots in Bob’s chest and one through his temple for good measure.
‘
You don’t do murders often, but when you do, they’re humdingers. I’ve noticed, whenever someone says I’m too clever for you, they seldom are.
Kerry, I don’t think I’ll ever watch Grease in the same way again! Intriguing read. Well done.
Thanks Denise for stopping by. You should be glad I didn’t go with my original ending. Years ago, I was supposed to go to a cocktail party of meet Olivia but got sick and couldn’t go. Of all the luck.
Thanks John. I left the story unfinished so you could write the end if you wanted. I can think of four possible endings. Thanks for stopping by as always
John response is below Denise
Wow. Totally threw me for a loop, Kerry. Well done!
There are three possible endings here so you write your own. I changed mine at the last minute.
Whoa, that had everything. I wonder if sandy can take a bullet in her condition?
Hi Beebles choose your own ending and you shoot her yourself. I aim to please.
Kerry, I seem to recall another story of yours with a mannequin. Hmmm. Something from life? Great take on the prompt.
I did write another story. She gets around a lot. She is real. Stands by my mantle in our bedroom, five six high, red hair and wears my wife’s prom dress from high school.
Nico was captivated by the quaintness of Underworld Curiosity Shoppe. Despite her efforts not to, she browsed the front window, particularly the antique maid costume displayed on the stick thin mannequin. She imagined salaciously what Henry would think when she wore it.
The proprietress smiled as she boxed the item and slid it across the counter. On the way out, Nico saw the mannequin and she winked at it, as if the dummy should know her intensions.
Nico called seductively to Henry as she walked in the door. Looking up from his laptop, Henry raised his considerable eyebrows at her expression.
“Isn’t it poker night, Dear?” Nico said.
“It is. The guys should be here in a half hour or so. I’ve been reading up on basic strategy. I just can’t get the hang of Texas holdem. “
“I’m sure you’ll do fine. Don’t mind me; I’ll just do some house cleaning while you boys have your fun.”
“But you’ll be bored. All us guys drinking and telling stories.” Henry closed the laptop. “Why don’t you visit your mother or something?”
“Why Henry, if I didn’t know better, I’d guess you’re trying to get rid of me.”
Nico shivered in the bedroom as the poker game heated up in the dining room. The maid costume clung to her curves and exposed most of her skin. Her bare buttocks quivered with anticipation. She snapped on a black garter before walking out.
All action stopped as Nico began to sweep the room with an old feather duster. The men, mouths agape, watched every seductive move. When she was finished, Nico curtsied and stood in front of her husband.
“Henry, I just wanted you to see, just one last time, what you’ll never see again. I’m leaving you.” She turned on her stiletto heal and walked out, sashaying her hips. “Oh, and you can tell Cindy Cooper to be more careful where she leaves her panties. I found them under the bed. How convenient that she labels them.”
Ouch…
What a treat! That was deliciously sinister. Well-played on her part.
Wow, I didn’t see that end coming. Great story.
Whow, what a blow to have to take. Labeling panties is definitely a no no. You are at top form this week Don’t you wish you were there to see this?
Good little twist, a costume for her not him. That Cindy’s either a nerd or enjoys home wrecking!
Henry is such an idiot. I’ll bet poker buddy William, the wealthy, handsome, single guy, will be calling Nico, soon.
Antiquing
“Hey, check this out.”
I looked at my wife’s odd contraption, faded, discolored, and beyond repair. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. Thought you might.”
I shrugged. Despite my daughter’s label for me as Knower of Things, a great many left the same oddly curious grin on my face as hers. I turned the item I held over. I liked it. It looked ancient and fossilized. Both words warmed my heart. I called the store manager, a man possibly older than the antiquity I held. “What is this?” I held the object up for him to see but he pattered over to look more closely.
“Eh,” he said, taking it from my hand. “It looks like one them there fossilized shark’s teeth. Gots me a passel o’ them ‘round here somewhere.”
I didn’t bite. I had a fistful of shark’s teeth at home and this didn’t look like any of them. It was far more round. Possibly, it could be a canine for a bear or prehistoric wolf or some such. My Knower of Things moniker didn’t have any more oomph than that, though. “I’ll take it, but I don’t think it’s a shark’s tooth so I’m not paying $12.50. I’ll give you $5.”
He scowled, we haggled, and I left paying $8 for the curiosity. My wife picked out a fossilized egg (though it could have been scat) and together we settled on a more original looking shark’s tooth. Our purchases secure, we left the shop and dodged snowflakes on our way back to the car.
Once home, my wife began scrubbing at the “dirt” on her “egg”, immersing it in a vinegar bath to loosen the grime. I argued the poor choice but she shushed me and went about getting items out for dinner while her trophy fizzed in its cleaning solution. I tucked my tooth into my shirt pocket.
I trimmed the fat and such away from the meat and placed the scraps in a bowl before my cat jumped on the table. My wife screamed, I jumped (dropping the knife), and the tooth flew from my pocket to land unnoticed in the bowl of scraps.
Cleaning up after our meal I found the tooth as I went to toss the scraps in the trash. I was mortified.
My wife laughed at me as I extracted the sticky, bloody, relic and dropped it into her cleaning solution next to the “egg”.
More fizz and bubbles.
We forgot about them all night.
In the morning, the fizzy concoction had overturned and the egg and tooth were gone. I looked for the cat, but aside for some tufts of fur, I came up empty. Even rattling the food bin garnered me nothing.
Very odd.
And then my wife’s scream tore me from my confusion. I rushed down the hall to our room. My path was blocked. A three-foot-high, mottle-hided creature chirped at me. Its teeth glimmered in the light of the full moon.
One of them looked alarmingly familiar.
Everything seemed so normal until, bam, the creature emerged. Good one.
That 500 word thing made it choppy, but I could have changed the front to give more to the back end. I like the idea of the egg and tooth merging to hatch into a new-fangled Dino.
Glad you enjoyed it.
Wonderful, Bushkill. Your theme would make an exciting children’s story.
Good idea Denise. This one is too good to leave it. It has the bones for a fun story for kids. Nice work Bushkill.
Interestingly, I read a story recently where a woman created robot Velociraptors. The two raptors behaved like 5-year children and could only be controlled with cookies. It was a magnificent, brilliantly told story.
Aargh, a feline ursine canine reptilian hybrid. Classic fifties B movie ensues. V. Enjoyable.
Hmm, I once collected eggs, wonder where they went. Fun piece, but I’m not certain about the suggestions for a children’s book. Well, for some children, perhaps.
The Vermont Teddy Bear
I spent a few hours at the Coxsackie Antique Center. There were lots of antique bottles; and while I love blue glass, I promised myself that I wasn’t going to clutter up the new house with things to dust. There was a pen and inkwell set of three dodecahedrons with a zodiac sign on each side which I picked up.
There was a beautiful roll top desk that reminded me of my grandmother’s. I didn’t think it would fit in the car so I had to leave it. Then I found a patchwork Vermont teddy bear. My grandmother had been from Vermont and since I couldn’t get the roll top desk I picked up the bear and put it into the basket. I went toward the register.
Along the way, a collectible spoon rack caught my eye and it, too, went in the basket. I handed the cashier my items, then a one hundred dollar bill, and I got back change which made me happy.
When I got home I placed the zodiac set on the shelves behind the glass of the china cabinet that serves as my desk. Then I put the Vermont teddy bear in the hammock with the other soft cuties between the actual size Adipose and the eighteen-inches-tall Bumble.
I was looking around my office trying to figure out where to hang the new spoon rack when there was a soft thump behind me. I turned to find Bumble on the floor. I didn’t think much of it, he’d fall at the slightest thing. This time it was because I moved him to make room for the bear. I picked up Bumble, dusted him off, and went to put him back into the hammock when I noticed the Misfit Bear’s head was turned as if it had been watching me. I couldn’t remember how its head had been before. Holding Bumble like a toddler I fixed the bears head to face front. Then I carefully placed Bumble next to the bear again and gave the hammock a small shake to make sure he was steady. Satisfied, I returned to finding a place on the wall for the spoon rack.
I finally settled on high, toward the ceiling, making a triangle with two holders that were similar to the new one. I went to the closet to get necessary tools; and, when I came out I glanced at the Vermont teddy bear. Its head was turned toward me and the closet doorway.
I had seen too many haunted doll movies to let this pass. I gathered a shipping box and duct tape, and packaged up the bear. Then I went online and got the shipping address for the Vermont Teddy Bear Hospital. I didn’t complete the form; but, I wanted to put ‘Alive’ under Description of bear’s Injury/Ailment. I didn’t put a return address on the box either. I took it directly to the post office and mailed it out.
I don’t blame you for sending the bear away. Too creepy.
Dang, what happens next? Does the bear reappear? Does he haunt the hospital? Who opens the box? You’ve left me wanting more…well done!
Yeah
That one has to go
Good call.
I’m the same, I want to know where the bear ends up if not coming back. Perhaps you can do for bears what king did for clowns?
Very good! Haunted by the ghost of a demon child? The blood of a witch stitched into the quilting? I’m still thinking.
THE RED BARN
The Red Barn Flea Market squats in the desert along Route 82, outside Nogales. I was once a regular and knew every vendor by name. One day, a new vendor appeared, a dusty old Vaquero in worn boots and sweat-stained cowboy hat. He sat amid an assortment of junk, smoking cheap Mexican cigarettes and drinking a foul smelling punch out of a chipped Denny’s coffee cup. Everything he owned was scattered haphazardly on old blankets all around him.
“I’m Red,” I said, poking around for a bargain. I like to buy broken items that I fix them up resell to tourists on the other side of town.
“Rojas,” he replied with a thick Mexican accent.
“How about that,” I said.” We got the same name.”
I found a straight razor with a good German blade and a tarnished silver hat band with a nice turquois stone. I could rework that into a lady’s bracelet. I showed Rojas the items.
“How much?”
He shook his head and held up three crooked fingers. “You buy three.”
I continued scanning the junk and was about ready to give up when I kicked a small fruit jar. I picked it up and saw that it was filled with clear liquid. Swirling around the bottom were two slender yellowish objects. Apparently, this was Rojas’ tequila stash, complete with worms. Upon closer inspection, the worms turned out to be teeth, fangs to be precise, perhaps bobcat or puma. On a whim I decided to buy the jar.
“OK, how much?”
“No!” He croaked when he saw the jar. “Not this, no!”
“Why not?” My curiosity was peaked.
“There is curse. Give to me.”
“A curse?”
“Si, very bad.”
“Cursed how?”
“They belong to a chupacabra”
“A what?”
“A vampiro.”
“Vampire?” I laughed.
“Yes, many live in Mexico,” he answered humorlessly.
“How about twenty?” I flashed an Andrew Jackson.
“No, it would be bad for you.”
But, I saw he was wavering. I flipped the twenty at him and ran for my truck. I couldn’t believe my luck, a unique oddity with a legend attached. I was certain that if I could get those teeth properly mounted, I could triple my money, and that vampire story would sell.
It took the Rojas three days to find me. I awoke to find him standing at the foot of my bed, hungrily watching me. He held the zip-lock baggie where I had stored the fangs. He ripped it open and gingerly inserted the fangs into his empty canine sockets.
He then turned his ghastly smile upon me.
“Do you know how long I have been banished to that stinking desert, forced to live on the blood of goats while I waited for some fool to open that accursed jar?”
“Please don’t kill me.”
“No, you won’t die, but you’ll wish you could. When you awake in three days, I’ll be here waiting for you.”
That was a long time ago. Now, I sit in my stall at the Red Barn Flee Market, sipping my goat punch and selling junk while I wait for someone to unlock the little jar at my feet.
This was very well done and enjoyable. The descriptions, the dialog, the story itself, all marvelous.
Ditto. The descriptions really brought this to life and the use of the name red brought colour into the desert.
Very impressive and atmospheric take on the prompt. When I first read this it reminded me of Ride the Pink Horse by Dorothy B. Hughes, a book I read when I was probably too young. Great job.
I tried to channel my inner ShamelessHack, and this is what came out.
——
“Have you seen Raf? It’s been a month since his last prompt.”
“I think he went to the antique store.”
“What’s he doing in the antique store?”
“Beats me.”
“He hasn’t submitted anything in four weeks. FOUR WEEKS!”
“Calm down Jess, I’m sure he’s working on something.”
“Yeah, as in mediocre work! People had been wondering about his entries Bob, and I have nothing to tell them.”
“You need tea.”
“I don’t need tea, what I need is for him to write this week’s prompt or else I’m going to lose my mind.”
“Oh look, there he is. I’ll go make dinner.”
“What’s up guys?”
“WHAT’S UP? WHAT’S UP? You’ve missed four prompts in four weeks! That’s what’s up!”
“Work got a little hectic.”
“Oh poo. And where were you this afternoon? Huh?”
“I bought some things at the antique shop in town.”
“And?”
“And I found something quite interesting.”
“Raf, just start writing the prompt will you?”
“Relax, this’ll just take a minute.”
“Fine.”
“I saw this old clock that looked like Cogsworth so I got it. Next, I got this old looking dream catcher to add to my collection. But this last one caught my eye when I was quickly glancing at the shelves.”
“What’s so special about a crystal ball? It’s just a gimmick that fortune tellers use to grab a quick buck from unsuspecting losers.”
“Jess, don’t be mean. This crystal ball is special because it does…”
“Does what?”
“Wait for it.”
“I-is that…”
“Yes. It’s so cool right?”
“Us?”
“Yeah, don’t tell Bob.”
“Wait what?”
“Yeah, I can see you going into the kitchen and telling him right away.”
“Well that’s not fair.”
“He’s a party pooper and this is a crystal ball that actually tells the future! What did you expect?”
“Okay, okay. Just work on this week’s prompt then.”
“Already done.”
“You looked didn’t you?”
“Yup.”
We all need a little inner ShamelessHack now and then. Fun read.
Ouch. Maybe tis not great to rattle the higher-ups. They give a service.
Maybe
But the banter is awesome all the same.
Well written. A little confusing with the dialogue but I was able to keep up. Cool idea.
“so what has RAF been up to this past month?!”
“Writing other awesome stuff we hope!”
Ah, would that I could do Hack so well. Loved, “You need tea.” Don’t stay gone so long.
Marge and Arlee and the spirit of Christmas
“Marge,” Arlee called from the mud room as he changed his shoes and hung up his jacket. “I’m thinking about getting a dog.” He stood still as he waited for her reply. “A dog, Marge.” She’s home, he thought, car’s in the driveway.
“That’s nice, dear,” she finally replied from the kitchen where he headed.
“Nice shopping with Carol?” He asked. “Looks like it, all those boxes and bags.” He walked to the table where she sat surrounded by tissue paper, tape, and. . . “Christmas paper? Out already? Didn’t know you were Christmas shopping, what with Thanksgiving just over.”
“Getting an early start this year.” Arlee watched as she rummaged through the items in front of her.
“In your hair, Marge, your hair.”
“Oh, thank you,” Marge said in a rather distracted voice as she pulled glasses from tumbled white curls, they’d been married a long time. “Coffee’s still hot, started it soon as I got home.”
“Great, getting cold out.” He poured a mugful, got non-fat creamer from the cupboard. “Find some good bargains, did you?” He pushed a large, brown paper bag out of the way and sat down across from her.
“Hmm, maybe not bargains, just a few things caught my eye, want to get them wrapped now.” She reached for the bag. “Something for Samantha, I mean Sam, can’t get used to calling her that.”
“I know, dear,” Arlee said, then sighed. Their daughter-in-law, never Marge’s favorite person, seemed to be having another identity crisis. At least her hair had finally grown back. “So, show me what you got her.”
“Carol wanted to go to this new antique store on 5th, told her I had enough old things,” she patted Arlee’s arm, smiled to show she was joking. “But, can you believe it, I found three pieces of your mother’s depression glass cups, just like the three I gave Sam last year. Now, she’ll have a set of six.” Marge took the cups from the bag.
“Uh, Marge, dear, I think. . .” He carefully placed his mug on the table. “Marge, I looked at those cups most of my life, oh, Marge, I recognize the ink stain on that handle from when my father used it when he was writing checks. My mother could never get it out.” He didn’t want to say it, but he had to. “Marge, I think those are the cups you gave Sam last year.”
“Yes, Arlee,” Marge measured a length of angel printed wrapping paper and picked up her scissors, “I know.” She cut the paper. “Now, what’s this nonsense about a dog?”
Dang, Reatha. Now that was good old fashioned entertainment. I’d pay to see Sam’s face when she opened the present.
Loved your story, Reatha. Wonderfully descriptive. Marge, sweet, subtle and gets her point across. A mother in law at her finest.
That was super funny Reatha. I read this yesterday and I am still smiling now I write this at Marge’s steely matteroffactedness. Perfect last para.
You have kept these two at it for years. Awesome. This was good and I love the regifting… to the same person no less
Ahhhh, Christmas shopping. I, personally, applaud Marge with re-gifting the same items. I would do the same thing, year after year until it sunk in, if given the opportunity. I really enjoy your stories of Marge and Arlee!
Well this can happen. Some sixty years ago my grown sister sent our great aunt Libby a bun warmer, of all things to send a great aunt,especially one with money. Damn if the next year it back to her as a gift. We were never sure it was a mistake or not and since Aunt Libby buried three husbands and was a black widow, see didn’t want to mess with her any more. As real as Tory as it gets and a whole lot of fun.
Not all the way sure what I’m going to do with this, but now I’ve got it set up for quite the story I think, so I might keep working with it. In the meantime, I have what might be a name for it, although might just be a placeholder until I can think of something better. Lastly, I promise that there is an explanation for how Plum is both a sister and just recently got there, but I haven’t gotten the right prompt to really talk about it. So yeah, just an update for what is going on here. Again, I suggest you read my responses to the last two prompts in order for this to make much sense.
Color Me Concerned Part III: Oracle Box
As Plum showed Amaranth, Apricot and Amber around the ship, Mazarine went to her room to look at some of the maps of the quadrant.
“Mazarine?” Dahlia called from the doorway.
“It just doesn’t make sense!” Mazarine shouted suddenly, tossing the map across the room. “There is absolutely no reason they should be in this quadrant. They’ve gotta be up to something…”
“It isn’t like you to get so worked up over something like this. That’s usually what I do,” Dahlia joked, sitting on the bed beside her older sister.
“I like things to make sense,” Mazarine sighed. “What if they’re spies or something?” This made Dahlia laugh, a sound that came surprisingly deep from her stomach.
“Here for us? Please, it’s been thousands of years since we went rogue, and I doubt they even remember us!”
“You’re probably right.”
The sisters sat in silence for a moment. Mazarine was more worried than she’d let on. Dahlia was too.
“Remember this?” she asked excitedly, jumped from the bed and picking up a small wooden box with knobs on it that they had gotten from an antique store in Earth.
“Of course. What has it got to do with anything?” Mazarine asked, staying on the bed.
“Well, on Earth, it used to talk. Maybe it has got the answers!” Dahlia squealed beginning to turn the knobs in every direction.
“On Earth it mostly just sang. Why would it have any valuable information now?”
“I never told you this, but I noticed something special about this box when first I bought it,” Dahlia continued fiddling with every knob as Mazarine stood from the bed. “While I was messing with it once in my room, it suddenly began calling to me in this deep, crooning voice. It kept repeating ‘love me tender’.”
“So what? That just sounds like what it always did,” Mazarine thought Dahlia was acting nuts, but went along with it if for no other reason but to share the fond memories of Earth.
“No, but this was on the day I met Oliver,” Dahlia said softly, clearly seeing the man in her mind as she whispered his name. He had truly been the love of her life. Mazarine jumped a little, but Dahlia didn’t notice.
“Mazarine,” Dahlia finally broke the silence, “I think this is an oracle box.”
The phrase made the quiet return. Neither of them had ever seen an oracle box, only heard about them in legends back on their home planet. If what Dahlia said was true, this was the most powerful, and dangerous weapon anyone could ever own. And it was sitting in some Earth antique shop.
“So how can we get it to work again?” Mazarine asked, already knowing what was most likely the only possible answer, but just wanting to hear it out loud.
“Go back to Earth,” Dahlia whispered, and her soft voice seemed to echo through the entire ship.
Plum, who had left Apricot and Amber in the room they’d share, and was now walking Amaranth to her room, felt a shiver go through her body.
“What is it my pulchritudinous seraph?” Amaranth asked, putting her hand on Plum’s shoulder.
“Um…” Plum adjusted herself, and processed the thought she’d just picked up. Both Mazarine and Dahlia were thinking too much, too loud, and it pushed its way into Plum’s mind. It had said they were going back to Earth. “Nothing,” Plum finally decided to say.
“Whatever you divulge,” Amaranth said, taking her hand from Plum’s shoulder.
Plum hadn’t minded Amaranth’s needless, ridiculously verbose words, but something about divulge didn’t sit right with her. It felt as though Amaranth knew something was being hidden, and it felt as if Amaranth planned to find out what it was.
“This is my room. We’ll have to share,” Plum said as they reached the doorway. It actually didn’t make much sense for them to have gone to her room last, as it was closer to the front of the ship, where the kitchen was, and where they had beamed in at.
“Plum,” Dahlia called out, coming from Mazarine’s room, “It seems we might have a change of course.”
“Oh, how titillating!” Amaranth shouted far too loud. Mazarine exited her room too, looking better than she had in weeks. She held the antique tight under one of her arms.
“We’re going back to Earth,” she said in a surprisingly demanding voice.
So glad you are continuing with this, good job using some of last week’s prompt as well as seamlessly incorporating this week’s. I’ll patiently wait for Plum’s story.
Looking forward to them getting to earth. It should make for some entertaining pieces.
The air changed as I unlocked the front door. Sudden and inexplicable tension…the world had gone silent. I shivered. There was something creepy about to happen.
I dismissed it with a smile and remembered my excitement, and put my new-old collectibles on the coffee table. Slowly, I emptied the sepia colored canvas bags with ‘Past is Prologue: Prized Pieces by Pearl’ on the front.
First, I carefully removed the RCA Victor Portable Phonograph and thought about my mother’s huge collection of 33’s. I froze as I heard a buzz somewhere from the ledge. What was happening?
I took a breath and then pulled out the 1897 Candlestick telephone. I put the mouthpiece closer…”Mr. Watson, come here,” I said musingly. I jumped as my smartphone began to vibrate. Calm down…what was wrong with me? I glanced at it…no one was calling. Frustrated, I threw on the chair.
Finally, from the second bag, I took out an aged Remington typewriter. This was so cool. I turned around and was about to grab some paper from the printer when my computer monitor flashed on a Word document with a message in giant letters: DON’T YOU DARE!
Ah. My kids are playing a joke on me. I slowly took the blank paper and placed it in the typewriter, which began to whirl its roller…and then I leaped back as it began to type: ‘HEY, YOU’RE CUTE.’
Angry menacing sounds came from the computer. This time the document had a message in Chiller font: ‘STUFF IT, GRANDPA, OR I’LL PUT OUT YOUR RIBBONS!’
The roller whirled. ‘A POX ON YOUR HARD DRIVE!’ I tried to pull out the paper but a few capital letters slammed on my fingers. I yelped.
I began to run and barely dodged something flying across the room. My Mp3 player was on top of the phonograph blaring heavy metal! The record player spun it around until it flew off at high speed, bounced off the computer which typed ‘@#$%!’, and landed back on the turntable. The arm went up and tried to needle the Mp’s screen.
I had to get out of here! I stepped backward and nearly tripped on my smartphone which was in a death grip with the candle phone wire! The Galaxy vibrated violently until the rotary dial was forced the wrong way. My cell flashed a pic of Alexander Graham Bell’s tombstone and the receiver went wild.
I screamed and then grabbed the Pearls canvas bag. I rushed in and grabbed all three collectibles, getting a few needle scratches and key imprints on my hands, and threw them inside. “Behave yourself now! ” I yelled crazily to the moderns. “You really embarrassed me in front of the guests. (Laughing emoji on the monitor.) I was carrying the bag out to the garage, and turned around. “Don’t make me choose.”
The threat worked. I haven’t had any troubleshooting issues since.
Wonderful, fantastic, creative, fun, and educational (on how to deal with modern technology). You must be a collector, your items are presented so well.
Very clever and creative. Entertaining and fun.
Wild! And that last line was a peach.