An Old Beau

 “When your mother first came into the community, she was so friendly. And happy, really happy.” Old Bill Johnston nods his chin in remembrance of when he was one of her first suitors.

Happy? It doesn’t seem possible. I’ve known my mother’s life as miserable.

“What happened?” This is out of my mouth before I could stop it.

“She got married.” He answers quickly but then realizing what that must sound like he adds, “then right away she had a big family and lots of work.”

I wonder. What if she’d married him?  

I see this question in his face too.   

 

 

 

Silence or Sighs.

I open my mouth and hear his sigh. Nothing I say is the type of truth he will listen to or enough of a lie to entertain him.  It’s no surprise he doesn’t understand me when I tell him I’m unhappy with our marriage. 

Counselling? Are you freaking insane?

No. Actually I’m not.

He looks at me like I’m an alien that’s landed in the back yard.

You’ve a bee in your bonnet! Why? Menopause? Empty nest? You’ve hatched some idea that will cost me money? No. Over my dead body.

He isn’t sighing.

I’ve got the right to remain silent.

 

 

 

Some Treatment Doctor

My chiropractor, who I haven’t visited in 20 years, is doing a little catch up with me as might be expected. I’ve been writing, he’s just back from his dog trial championship win.

I’m face down on his bench and he’s twisted me in preparation. Crunch. Done.

“This is just the same problem you used to have, when you were working like a dog.”

I immediately wonder what other disrespectful ideas did he have.  Farmwives work but I was no one's dog. It will take time to move past his words. 

And to think that I paid him for this treatment!

 

 

Publication of Short Story

My marketing efforts from last week paid off in several ways.

1. I got word of a story being accepted for publication.
2. I got chastised for simultaneous submitting to a market that wants exclusivity.
3. I got a team of editor response to a story - they all had a reason why they didn't like the story I sent them.

Sometimes marketing is actually just a way to create mail. 🔁

Follow this link to read Silence in the Morning at Pif Magazine. My story is second under Macro-Fiction

Typing Skills

I tell my father what I said in creative writing class about ‘showing not telling’ complete with examples. He expands on what I’ve said, and corrects me on points I didn’t make, as if all of this writing business is easy. Anyone can do it. He says. It’s funny. Sad. Annoying. Incredible.

Later that day he receives an important email and he asks for my help with the response. My typing skills are better than his, he says. Typing skills. Better than his. Really?

Then I suggest that he show me what he wants me to type. Clearly. In written form.