prompt_id,prompt,story_id,story_title,story_author,story_url,link,genre,is_sensitive,categories,likes,story_text,posted_date,comments
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,kkl32l,Donuts Do Not Die,Mary Bendickson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/kkl32l/,/short-story/kkl32l/,Fiction,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Holiday', 'Inspirational']",40 likes,"
Donuts Do Not DieThe crotchety old guy settled back down in his over-sized crusty stuffed arm chair pushing the ottoman slightly to the side for now. He jarred another cigarette out of its pack and picked it out with his teeth, flipped his Bic to light it and clicked to a 24-four-hour news station on the large box TV balanced on top of the flickering gas fake fireplace used to heat the enclosed porch. The cold chill still rattled the three walls of windows he peered through watching for them.He knew they were coming. The waning sun was sneaking below the horizon finally giving up any effort to warm the hazy atmosphere. Indian summer was long gone giving in to the soon to arrive winds of November. It was time.He could detect their torches bobbing along in the distance from every direction. They were searching. Knowing the flickering lights from the fireplace and TV would be casting eerie blue images across his sullen features, he figured he might as well give in to the ghosts, and the skeletons, and the zombies. Never any good news on these days anyway.Struggling up from his comfortable corner he lumbered to the switch by the front door and illuminated the interior then checked to see if the door was locked before settling back in for the inevitable. And he waited. He didn't have to wait long.^**^“This is it, Grandma! I think this is the one! We found it. Didn't we?” The miniature King Kong squealed.“Well, I think so. It looks very much like what I remember. But it has been a lot of years since...”“I am pretty sure, Mom brought us here a couple of years ago. The porch light is on. Let's go see. Okay?”“But there is an old man on the porch. Someone else might live here now...“Oh, oh. I know you. You're... Bruce. Aren't you?”“Sure am. And you are Tammy. Right? We went to high school together, if I remember correctly.”“Then we are at the right place. But maybe the wrong time. Is... your mother still...”“Yes, yes. She is still alive. I live here now taking care of her.”“She can't possibly still...”“If you are thinking what I think you are thinking then yes. She has some help now days but you'll find her inside. I am only the gate keeper. Go on in the foyer and straight ahead. The doors are closed to keep the cold out and the warmth in. But she is watching for more victims. She is waiting to see you and your big gorilla. She will be delighted.”“Knock on the door, Scooter. You know what to say.”“Don't say my name, Grandma. I am the mighty King Kong!”“Gotcha. You're on, King Kong.”“Trick or Treat!”“Come in, come in,” a frail, shaky octogenarian voice responded back.They open the second door to see a crippled-up hag in a witch's hat and green and white striped long-stockings beckoning them to enter into her lair. She reaches her gnarly long figures for a napkin to wrap up a humongous golden ring of glazed pastry before handing it to the youngster.“Here you are, you Little Monkey.” Her voice quavers.“Could my grandma have one, too, please?” He ventures as he clutches the treasure to his chest over the plastic jack-o-lantern dangling from his arm. “She used to come here when she was my age.”“Oh, no. I, I don't...” Tammy started.“Sure you do, Deary. Here you go.”“Why, thank you so much. I remember how good these are. I can't believe you are still making and passing out your delicious donuts after all these years.” Tammy oohed and ah-ed.“My girls and even my Grandson help me out now days. But I have only missed one year, the year that grandson got married on Trick-or-Treat night, in what, near 50 years? As long as the Good Lord allows, I'll try to keep up the tradition.”Tammy basked in the aroma of the delicacy and the welcoming smell of the whole house still emanating from the kitchen.“Well, God bless you and thanks again, so much.” She directed her grandson back through the double-door foyer to the front porch to make room for the next in line.“Thank you, Bruce. So wonderful to see 'The Donut Lady' is still producing her signature treat. I remember seeing that story in the newspaper years ago. If you don't mind me asking, how old is she by now?”“Well into her eighties. Will be ninety next February in fact. Almost have to tie her down to keep her out of her kitchen. She tends to fall a lot lately so can't be out there alone anymore. But she can't be stopped from supervising the production. Ours still never come out as perfect as hers but we try.”“Still looks wonderful and I can't wait to get home and enjoy this with a cup of coffee. Don't even have to share this saucer-sized wheel with anyone. I never expected to get one myself. Chewbaca, here, asked for one for me.”“King Kong, Grandma! Chewbaca would need guns and you wouldn't let me carry one!”“You make a ferocious King Kong, Little Guy. Don't be climbing any skyscrapers. Enjoy your prize.” He slightly tussled the long fur on the top of the creature's head then motioned them aside as four multi-colored Power Rangers converged on them weapons drawn.“Trick or Treat!” They demanded in unison.“Right through there but beware the witch!” He pointed them toward the inner door as a princess, a unicorn and two fairies exited with eyes as round as the treats they beheld.“Excuse us, excuse us, please.”Bruce held open the porch door to let them pass and as Tammy and her grandson started exiting as well he touched her arm, “Uh, Tammy. It was good to see you again. Perhaps I can buy you a regular sized donut and cup of coffee sometime soon over at Flinny's?”“That would be nice. How about Tuesday at half pass eight?”“Sounds delightful. See you then.” He smiled as he ushered in Donald Trump and Barack Obama. “Right this way, Gentlemen.”
","August 17, 2023 16:06","[[{'Lily Finch': 'Mary what a cute story of about a mini-donut making little old lady who was known in the neighbourhood for her Trick or Treat treats. So great. LF6', 'time': '16:22 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Mom's donuts were Texas sized. She presented the full sized ones on Halloween for 50 some years. Thanks for reading and liking. You would have loved her donuts, too."", 'time': '16:39 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'Lily Finch': 'You are correct Mary. Donuts are my weakness. Yum yum. LF6', 'time': '18:33 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Mom's donuts were Texas sized. She presented the full sized ones on Halloween for 50 some years. Thanks for reading and liking. You would have loved her donuts, too."", 'time': '16:39 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'You are correct Mary. Donuts are my weakness. Yum yum. LF6', 'time': '18:33 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'You are correct Mary. Donuts are my weakness. Yum yum. LF6', 'time': '18:33 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'So sweet, like the donuts! \nNice bit of misdirection up front. \nLovely take about a kind lovely lady.\nThanks for sharing 😌', 'time': '09:06 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Sure,happy to share. Mom was a treasure and my brother could be difficult but he came through when it came time to care for her.', 'time': '15:37 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': 'Glad to hear it! :)', 'time': '08:03 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Sure,happy to share. Mom was a treasure and my brother could be difficult but he came through when it came time to care for her.', 'time': '15:37 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Glad to hear it! :)', 'time': '08:03 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Glad to hear it! :)', 'time': '08:03 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'The title drew me in, with its D-N-D-N-D sound pattern. The story itself is sweet (ha!), and the opening quite funny, with the ""ghosts, and the skeletons, and the zombies"". I wasn\'t sure what we were in for - bad memories? Some kind of monster apocalypse? But of course, it was Hallowe\'en :) \n\nSome traditions keep us alive, don\'t they? They give us drive and purpose, and when it\'s something like a tasty donut, other people look forward to them as well - everybody wins. I like the last line too - a subtle nod to good food bringing people toget...', 'time': '20:37 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""A little of both on that last line\n☺️\nThanks for reading and commenting.\nFor this week's entry I'll be writing a thank you letter to Killer Nashville Writer's Conference for the winner's medal they presented me for best in western genre for first fifty pages of my unpublished manuscript!!!🥳🥳🥳"", 'time': '14:41 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Michał Przywara': ""Oh! Best in genre!! Congrats, Mary! That's awesome news, and a great sign of a promising novel :D"", 'time': '21:26 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Michał Przywara': 'Congratulations on the shortlist!', 'time': '16:39 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks. So surprised 😲. Must be on a roll🍩', 'time': '16:43 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""A little of both on that last line\n☺️\nThanks for reading and commenting.\nFor this week's entry I'll be writing a thank you letter to Killer Nashville Writer's Conference for the winner's medal they presented me for best in western genre for first fifty pages of my unpublished manuscript!!!🥳🥳🥳"", 'time': '14:41 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Michał Przywara': ""Oh! Best in genre!! Congrats, Mary! That's awesome news, and a great sign of a promising novel :D"", 'time': '21:26 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Michał Przywara': 'Congratulations on the shortlist!', 'time': '16:39 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks. So surprised 😲. Must be on a roll🍩', 'time': '16:43 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Oh! Best in genre!! Congrats, Mary! That's awesome news, and a great sign of a promising novel :D"", 'time': '21:26 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Congratulations on the shortlist!', 'time': '16:39 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks. So surprised 😲. Must be on a roll🍩', 'time': '16:43 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks. So surprised 😲. Must be on a roll🍩', 'time': '16:43 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': ""Wow! Awesome story! So glad I got here this early :)\n\nWhat a surprise, another creative non-fiction! You're the queen of them. You seem to have so much to write about in your life.\n\nThis must've been the perfect prompt! You know an octogenarian? Nicccce.\n\nSuch a nice story :)"", 'time': '16:24 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Thank you so much. My mom passed away two years ago at the age of 96. She was famous in our town for her donuts she passed out at Halloween. I had to go back a few years to make her 89 in this story. We helped her accomplish that feat right up 'til she passed. People would seek her house out on that night. My son still will make them but doesn't give them out for trick or treat."", 'time': '16:44 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '3'}, {'J. D. Lair': 'I had forgot this was labeled creative nonfiction. That makes it so much better! Sounds like your mom was quite the lady. :) this story has me thinking I should start a tradition like that with my family.', 'time': '00:45 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Thank you so much. My mom passed away two years ago at the age of 96. She was famous in our town for her donuts she passed out at Halloween. I had to go back a few years to make her 89 in this story. We helped her accomplish that feat right up 'til she passed. People would seek her house out on that night. My son still will make them but doesn't give them out for trick or treat."", 'time': '16:44 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'J. D. Lair': 'I had forgot this was labeled creative nonfiction. That makes it so much better! Sounds like your mom was quite the lady. :) this story has me thinking I should start a tradition like that with my family.', 'time': '00:45 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'J. D. Lair': 'I had forgot this was labeled creative nonfiction. That makes it so much better! Sounds like your mom was quite the lady. :) this story has me thinking I should start a tradition like that with my family.', 'time': '00:45 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Suma Jayachandar': 'Mary,\nWhat a sweet, warm and delicious story!\nThat first section is pure gold. Rich in description and anticipation that something sinister is about to happen. \nThen you flip things around and it brings us to one of the best things humans can bond over; good food. No wonder Grandma doesn’t want to let go of that privilege of bringing people to her doorstep for it.\nI’m glad this got the recognition it deserved. I’m a bit late, but congratulations!', 'time': '06:09 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks souch. I have fallen behind on my activity feed so sorry if missed an', 'time': '18:39 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks souch. I have fallen behind on my activity feed so sorry if missed an', 'time': '18:39 Sep 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Stevie Burges': ""Thanks for this, Mary.  I wasn't sure where it was going at the beginning and thought it might be creepy, but instead, it was cute and full of good cheer.  A lovely, well-written story."", 'time': '04:05 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Glad you liked my donut story about my brother on the porch and my Mom making donuts.', 'time': '19:05 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Glad you liked my donut story about my brother on the porch and my Mom making donuts.', 'time': '19:05 Sep 11, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin B': ""Mary, I'm so excited to see you on the shortlist! And as a donut lover, this one really made me smile. Just a delightful story from top to bottom. Congratulations."", 'time': '17:31 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you.🙏I, too, was excited to see me on the shortlist.😊', 'time': '18:41 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you.🙏I, too, was excited to see me on the shortlist.😊', 'time': '18:41 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""I love this tale, Mary. Sweet without being too sweet. That's a masterful touch, my friend. I see it's creative non-fiction. Sounds like someone in your life was giving out some terrific treats for Halloween. I still remember getting popcorn balls and peanut brittle from our neighbors back in the day. Beautiful.\n\nCongrats on the shortlist, Mary. The tale deserves such recognition. Keep it up, my friend!\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '12:43 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': '🙏 Thanks. That would be my mom. Her claim to fame.', 'time': '14:55 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': '🙏 Thanks. That would be my mom. Her claim to fame.', 'time': '14:55 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michelle Oliver': 'Congratulations on the short list. This is so beautiful. I love the opening, I wondered where on earth this was going. Was Mary venturing into horror? But the opening set up for a great story of how one person has such an impact on the world around them. I would have loved to meet your mum and sample her donuts that were obviously make with such love d care.', 'time': '22:23 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you. She was amazing but never thought it was anything special.😌', 'time': '22:27 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you. She was amazing but never thought it was anything special.😌', 'time': '22:27 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Jarrel Jefferson': 'You had me going there with the beginning. I thought something bad was going to happen with the old guy. This is a very sweet story. \nI also like the title. Maybe the Donut Lady is actually a witch who can live forever as long as her descendants help her make donuts every Halloween.\nWhat made you decide to start off with a darker tone in this story?', 'time': '13:39 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""At first I was going to go with fireplace scene. My brother did spend countless hours on front porch in crusty arm chair, smoking and watching sports or news programs on huge box tv perched on fake fireplace heater. He was quite grumpy after watching politics all day. He was mom's caretaker as she aged but he was in his sixties. He did wait for the trick or treaters to find the right house and lead them in to where she loved to see them. Just thought I would add to the suspense. Her donuts were the stars.😉"", 'time': '19:09 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""At first I was going to go with fireplace scene. My brother did spend countless hours on front porch in crusty arm chair, smoking and watching sports or news programs on huge box tv perched on fake fireplace heater. He was quite grumpy after watching politics all day. He was mom's caretaker as she aged but he was in his sixties. He did wait for the trick or treaters to find the right house and lead them in to where she loved to see them. Just thought I would add to the suspense. Her donuts were the stars.😉"", 'time': '19:09 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'The language you used captures interest and the storyline is equally captivating. Congrats.', 'time': '21:08 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you for liking and for the complimentary comment.', 'time': '21:22 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you for liking and for the complimentary comment.', 'time': '21:22 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Karen Corr': 'You took me from a sunny summer day on my back porch to a dark Halloween night, and now I’m craving donuts. Thank you for the ride!', 'time': '17:17 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Mary!!! Amazing!! \nWell done so happy for you!!', 'time': '10:51 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': '🙏 Thanks. Surprised 😯 me!\nOnce again, I appreciate that!', 'time': '14:38 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': 'Very well deserved! And overdue!!', 'time': '14:41 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': '🙏 Thanks. Surprised 😯 me!\nOnce again, I appreciate that!', 'time': '14:38 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Very well deserved! And overdue!!', 'time': '14:41 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Very well deserved! And overdue!!', 'time': '14:41 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Congratulations Mary, may your streak continue 🎉🎉', 'time': '10:01 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you 😊. Working on widening doorways to fit my head through.😏', 'time': '10:21 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you 😊. Working on widening doorways to fit my head through.😏', 'time': '10:21 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Susan Catucci': 'Sweeeeet recognition for a sweet tale lovingly told.  Twenty thumbs up, Mary (with a mini-doughnut at the end of each!)\n\nSo glad for you - congratulations!', 'time': '19:51 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you 😊 Thank you 🙏. So 😯 surprised!', 'time': '20:10 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you 😊 Thank you 🙏. So 😯 surprised!', 'time': '20:10 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Tsvi Jolles': 'Congratulations Mary. I was really happy to see that.', 'time': '17:21 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'As was I! Quite surprised 😯! Thanks 🙏', 'time': '18:18 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'As was I! Quite surprised 😯! Thanks 🙏', 'time': '18:18 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Deidra Whitt Lovegren': 'This might be the perfect autumn tale for 2023. \nLovely homage to your grandmother, from start to finish. \nWell done, Mary. \nA confection of perfection.', 'time': '17:19 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Like that line: confection of perfection. 🙏', 'time': '18:16 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Like that line: confection of perfection. 🙏', 'time': '18:16 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Russell Mickler': 'Congrats, Mary! Shortlisted!\n\nR', 'time': '17:10 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Yoo-hoo😯! So surprised. 🙏', 'time': '18:13 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Yoo-hoo😯! So surprised. 🙏', 'time': '18:13 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Hey, Mary! This was a really cute story, and I love the donut tradition. We have someone in the neighborhood who passes out apple cider for the adults. 😆 I thought this was going to be a thriller/mystery at the beginning, with the suspense you set up, but it went in a different (and nicer direction).\n\nCritique wise, I was a bit confused who was who throughout the dialogue. Dialogue only stories are great, but I think this one would have benefitted from more dialogue tags and descriptions, especially since there are three people talking. \n\nAn...', 'time': '17:09 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you so much.reading through again I can see I should have been clearer.', 'time': '18:12 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you so much.reading through again I can see I should have been clearer.', 'time': '18:12 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Mary,\nWhat a great story. Lots of fun.\nWell done.\nTake care\nHH', 'time': '15:23 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks so much🙏.', 'time': '15:27 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Howard Halsall': 'Well deserved recognition :)', 'time': '16:23 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks so much🙏.', 'time': '15:27 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Howard Halsall': 'Well deserved recognition :)', 'time': '16:23 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Howard Halsall': 'Well deserved recognition :)', 'time': '16:23 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Khadija S. Mohammad': 'Congratulations on a well-deserved shortlist! :)', 'time': '15:13 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Thank you. You are so on top of things I had not even looked at that yet so I thought you made a mistake! Yoo-hoo? Can hardly believe it's true! 😁☺️😯"", 'time': '15:19 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""Thank you. You are so on top of things I had not even looked at that yet so I thought you made a mistake! Yoo-hoo? Can hardly believe it's true! 😁☺️😯"", 'time': '15:19 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'Loved King Kong. Such a sweetie, your Mum baking donuts to share. A real cosy story.', 'time': '08:33 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for liking an sweet comment.\nShe made them since I was little. Stayed up all night and would sell them to her co-workers and at farmers market besides treats for Holloween.', 'time': '15:07 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for liking an sweet comment.\nShe made them since I was little. Stayed up all night and would sell them to her co-workers and at farmers market besides treats for Holloween.', 'time': '15:07 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'Loved King Kong. Not a shocking story this time. One about a donut lady.', 'time': '08:29 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Steffen Lettau': 'A wholesome holiday story, and it might make Hallmark jealous!', 'time': '01:57 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Martin Ross': 'Lovely story! Another great reminiscence that reads like a warm holiday tale!', 'time': '23:27 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks, Martin.', 'time': '23:30 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks, Martin.', 'time': '23:30 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Nina Herbst': 'So very sweet, Mary! I just love Halloween, and the joy and tradition in this story. She keeps the tradition going, even if she can’t do everything herself anymore. 🍩 \n\nAnd I loved the ending with two political-treaters. It’s possible, right?!?', 'time': '10:41 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Right. Even funnier when know how much my brother hates one of those two. He was feeling so good after getting a date he welcomed them both.', 'time': '15:41 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Right. Even funnier when know how much my brother hates one of those two. He was feeling so good after getting a date he welcomed them both.', 'time': '15:41 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Marty B': 'Good donuts will bring all the monsters in (politicians included!) I like the foreboding opening scene, I feared zombies, and it was close, tottering little King Kongs who cant walk well because of their costumes, and cant see because of their masks! \n\nI would have loved to Trick or Treat in your Moms neighborhood!  A great way to remember her with a story ;)', 'time': '03:38 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you for honoring her.', 'time': '09:01 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thank you for honoring her.', 'time': '09:01 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Katharine Widdows': 'Very sweet story and, though I was slightly confused for a moment near the start, very enjoyable. I love a donut.', 'time': '20:48 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Mom made the best. The start was meant to throw you off. People came looking for the right house but one had to go through the front porch to get the good stuff.', 'time': '21:01 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Mom made the best. The start was meant to throw you off. People came looking for the right house but one had to go through the front porch to get the good stuff.', 'time': '21:01 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Very engaging story!  Beginning had me guessing.  You did a good job of opening the story with intrigue--""he knew they were coming""--but who?  I wasn\'t thinking trick-or-treaters at first and the King Kong thing threw me for a bit.  We all can remember that one house from our childhood where they had the best treats!  Cool idea.', 'time': '19:13 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': '🙏 Thanks. My brother would sit on the front porch as welcome committee because there were two more doors to go through where Mom was waiting to see the kiddos in their costumes. She liked to dress for the occasion herself.', 'time': '19:19 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': '🙏 Thanks. My brother would sit on the front porch as welcome committee because there were two more doors to go through where Mom was waiting to see the kiddos in their costumes. She liked to dress for the occasion herself.', 'time': '19:19 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Mary,\nOh my goodness! It’s so lovely to see such a beautiful and wonderfully happy story. I loved the way you built up the creepiness of the holiday and the misconceptions about your character. It was a great creative decision that helped us feel the relief when it all worked out. Nice work!!', 'time': '13:24 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for the insightful comment', 'time': '14:15 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Thanks for the insightful comment', 'time': '14:15 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Olivia Lake': ""This is such a sweet story. I love the ambiguity in the beginning, but it was just Halloween! I still remember the neighbor who gave us homemade treats instead of store bought candy. I didn't appreciate how much time that must have taken her until I grew up.\n\nCongratulations on a well deserved shortlist!!"", 'time': '01:41 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'J. D. Lair': 'This was delightful Mary. :) Now, I want a fresh donut!', 'time': '00:40 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Wish I could accommodate your craving.\nThanks for liking and commenting.\n\nBehind on my reading this week\n Was in Nashville picking up my medal.\nWoohoo I won 🎉🎉🥳🥳', 'time': '15:42 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'J. D. Lair': 'Awesome! So proud of you! 🤗', 'time': '20:59 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'J. D. Lair': 'Congrats on the shortlist my friend! Quite a week for you. ☺️', 'time': '01:19 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Yes it has been! Remodeling house is in order to fit my head through doors.😅', 'time': '01:27 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'J. D. Lair': 'Haha you’ve earned it!', 'time': '03:25 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Wish I could accommodate your craving.\nThanks for liking and commenting.\n\nBehind on my reading this week\n Was in Nashville picking up my medal.\nWoohoo I won 🎉🎉🥳🥳', 'time': '15:42 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'J. D. Lair': 'Awesome! So proud of you! 🤗', 'time': '20:59 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'J. D. Lair': 'Congrats on the shortlist my friend! Quite a week for you. ☺️', 'time': '01:19 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Mary Bendickson': 'Yes it has been! Remodeling house is in order to fit my head through doors.😅', 'time': '01:27 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'J. D. Lair': 'Haha you’ve earned it!', 'time': '03:25 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Awesome! So proud of you! 🤗', 'time': '20:59 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Congrats on the shortlist my friend! Quite a week for you. ☺️', 'time': '01:19 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Yes it has been! Remodeling house is in order to fit my head through doors.😅', 'time': '01:27 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'J. D. Lair': 'Haha you’ve earned it!', 'time': '03:25 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Yes it has been! Remodeling house is in order to fit my head through doors.😅', 'time': '01:27 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'J. D. Lair': 'Haha you’ve earned it!', 'time': '03:25 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Haha you’ve earned it!', 'time': '03:25 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,odli1t,Warren and Peace,Derrick M Domican,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/odli1t/,/short-story/odli1t/,Fiction,0,"['Drama', 'Mystery', 'Suspense']",31 likes,"
TW: Suggestion of child abduction/murder.“Darling, I’m home! Sorry, I took so long. I picked up some veal steaks for dinner and had a wander around that flea market in town. You’ll never guess what I found…”Sitting in an armchair, close to the fire, working on a blanket she was crocheting for her granddaughter’s pending new arrival, Bethany Peace sighed, dropping her needles into her lap as her husband’s breathless words raced down the hall.“Let me guess, dear,” she called back, removing her spectacles and pinching her nose. “Something musty, overpriced and, oh what’s that other word, can’t think of it for the life of me, oh, I know…haunted.”She said the last word as Ted poked his white-haired head into the room, grinning and extending an arm, giving the cheap plastic bag he held a shake.“Don’t be annoyed, darling. I haven’t bought anything in ages. I haven’t even been looking. I was only browsing for books but it was just sitting there, on a table with Romanian antiquities and, well, how could I not?”“Oh, Teddy,” Beth lifted a cup from its saucer on the table next to her chair and sipped chamomile tea. “I thought you’d given up on all this. After ‘Annabelle’ over there scared the bejesus out of you and everyone started calling you Ted Warren.”She nodded at the oak display cabinet with the glass shelves that stood in the corner of the room and watched Ted’s smile fade as his eyes came to rest on the doll on the bottom shelf, no doubt imagining it was glaring at him, like always.“Shh,” he said, entering fully and making his way to the sofa by the window. “Don’t say her name, darling, just in case ”“You’re not still afraid of it, are you? I thought we agreed, you imagined all that. It was the covid. And the flu medication. And being alone in the house. The doll didn’t really escape and go running around the garden, you had it in your arms the whole time.” “Tell that to Mrs. Dingle.”“Bernadette suffered with a dodgy ticker for years, her heart attack was nothing to do with seeing a doll crushing dahlias in our front lawn. Please, Teddy, it’s bad enough you got that nickname from screaming in the street about ‘Annabelle’ killing our neighbour, I had to quit book club because of jokes about ‘Warren and Peace’, don’t tell me you’re back stalking antique stores.” “Not at all,” said Ted, placing the bag like it was a baby on the sofa. “In my defence, I never said I’d stop completely, just that I’d stop seeking things out. We agreed, if an artefact presented itself during the normal course of events, it was fair game.”While he spoke, Ted folded the sides of the bag down until the object within was revealed–to a now curious Beth–as a tiny pair of cracked and yellowed baby shoes with mother-of-pearl buttons on their straps and lace trim running around their collars.Beth blinked, put back on her glasses, blinked again.“Baby shoes?”“Yes! But not just any old shoes! Shoes belonging to the kidnapped daughter of Princess Alexandra of Bucharest, who was taken from the family home to be held for ransom in 1910 but was eventually found buried on the family property, wearing nothing but these very shoes!”“Oh, Teddy, that’s horrid,” Beth shivered, returning cup to saucer and laying aside her two-thirds finished blanket to struggle to her feet. “Poor child. So much evil in this world….”Beth hobbled over to where Ted stood regarding the pair of doll-like footwear on the sofa and snatched them up with one hand, unconcerned about their age or haunted potential.“Steady, darling,” Ted gasped, reaching out protectively as though they were a baby his wife was handling for the very first time. “They’re over a hundred years old!”“Yes, I can count, dear,” Beth said. “So small. I can’t imagine the child was any more than two.”“Two and a half,” Teddy said. “Her name was Luminita Albescu. And according to the gypsy, her spirit still resides in the shoes. They’ve been known to move on their own, walk, darling, as if being worn. And not just that. Kick. And run. And…”“Yes, I get the idea, dear,” Beth said, shuffling with the shoes towards the bookcase by the fire, placing them on her armchair while she looked for a book. “I’m sure the dreadful story that comes with them caused all manner of impressionable people to imagine all sorts of things when the spirits were on them, and I don’t mean the ethereal type.”“Oh, darling, I know you’ve always been sceptical and I know you’ve been able to explain away what we saw these things do in a logical way…” Ted was at the display cabinet now, looking at the items he’d collected, beginning with the 1916 Longines silver trench wristwatch, which his father had passed to him and he in turn had given to his son, Damien, on his fiftieth birthday.The watch poor Damien was wearing the day he died, coming off his mid-life crisis motorbike while riding it recklessly around a series of hairpin bends. As a result it became one of the ‘personal effects’ handed over when Ted identified the body. The ‘personal effect’ Ted had resumed wearing, in remembrance of his son.And that's how it started.Damien had died at 6.45 on a Tuesday. And every Tuesday after that, at around 6.45, the watch would stop. No matter how preemptively Ted wound it, even several times a day, the result was always the same. Ted was sure it meant his son's spirit, having missed it's chance to move on, had become bound to the watch, so of course he had to do something to set it free.Which was how his fascination with acquiring 'haunted' items and releasing the spirits attached to them had begun.“...but this is different,” he went on. “When I bought the shoes I put them on the back seat, in that bag, and by the time I got home they were out of the bag, on the floor, on the opposite side of the car! I mean…what does that tell you?” Beth looked over her shoulder as she removed a leather-bound tome from a shelf. “You were doing over 50 again ? How many times have I told you, if you must drive, slow down taking turns, you’ll do your back in again.”“What are you doing?” Ted asked, ignoring the brush-off.“Getting on with it. You want to free the child, don’t you? Be a dear and fetch the kit.”“But…now?”“Of course now, why wait? She’s been waiting over a hundred years, remember? Best put her out of her misery. Then you can add the shoes to your cabinet. And give it a bit of a dusting. You know I don’t touch those musty things.”The musty things in question were, apart from the watch: the porcelain doll they’d nicknamed Annabelle because of the movie, that had apparently been possessed by the spirit of a girl who drowned holding it in Mississippi in the 50’s (and had, by all accounts, been in the company of other children who met untimely, watery ends down through the years); a brown crystal necklace that had allegedly retained the soul of its owner, a washed-out actress who hung herself in the 70’s (which had been responsible for the freak, fatal choking of at least two subsequent owners); a desktop globe that had seemingly absorbed the essence of British archeologist Aaron Archibold, who died with it when a landslide crushed his tent in Guatemala (no further deaths associated with this item but it had a tendency to rotate of its own volition, a fact Ted and Beth had confirmed firsthand); and a first edition, tatty, dog-eared copy of Catcher in the Rye from 1951, underlined and annotated by its owner, a schizophrenic individual who had murdered his family before being killed by the police in the 90’s (with anybody who came into possession of said book thereafter supposedly drifting into a life of crime that led to their demise.) “It’s just…I thought you wouldn’t do exorcisms any more. After the Annabelle incident.”“I don't want to. But I won’t be able to sleep after that story you told, so for the sake of resting easy, let’s do it one more time. The box, dear, please.”Ted did what he was told, dropping to one knee before the cabinet and sliding an old briefcase out from under it. “Are you sure? It took a lot out of you last time. I was thinking of contacting Seb…”“You are not contacting that charlatan,” Beth said, brushing past Ted to deposit the book she’d retrieved on a table. “I’m sorry, I know you have a soft spot for him and I know you believe he helped…Damien.” She looked at the watch. “I just never trusted the man. I think he’s a fraudster and I think he took advantage of your beliefs.”“Darling…”“No, Ted. I know you believe, and I know you want me to, and I’d love to but…he took the watch apart to perform his ‘blessing’ and when he put it back together, it was fixed. Same with the globe. You believe those items contained the spirits of their deceased owners…and yes, I know that’s including Damien…but they could have behaved the way they did due to wear and tear, which was corrected by being taken apart. Don’t look at me like that, you know that’s always been my position. And regardless of that, when that man announced he was going to do the same with the book and tear it to pieces, that was the last straw. Honestly. A first edition Catcher in the Rye?”“He wasn’t going to tear it to pieces, darling,” Ted protested, placing the briefcase on the table beside the book Beth was leafing through, its brittle pages crinkling as they turned. “He was just going to remove the cover to make sure nothing was hiding in the spine. Sebastian Sempertinel is a professional.”“A professional you found by searching ‘exorcists near me’ on Google Maps. Yes, dear, of course he is, his fees were professional also, professionally exorbitant. Spread the cloth, will you? And get the candles ready.” Ted, shrugging in acceptance though no doubt concerned because of what happened last time, did as asked while she removed a black cloak adorned with silver stars from the briefcase and tied it around her neck. Her husband spread the red, pentagram-illustrated cloth she’d purchased on ebay out on the table, placed the mediaeval spellbook he himself had acquired from one of the antique shops he used to frequent in its centre, stood twelve black candles in iron bases around it and used an electric candle lighter to light them while she retrieved a rowan branch ‘wand’.She wasn’t happy about this. Taking this chance, one she'd been afraid to take even for Damien, was a bad idea before and a worse one now, considering what happened last time. But if she didn’t, Ted would involve Sempertinel, who in truth did have some ability, and while she appreciated what he’d done with the watch, she couldn’t trust him, because she felt he didn’t trust her.Also, if the shoes were possessed by a child, she couldn't do nothing.“That's good,” she said, inscribing symbols in the air with the wand while Ted looked on. He thought she’d decided to take things into her own hands purely to stop Sebastien destroying antiques. Gathering this paraphernalia, learning to recite ancient ‘spells', taking online exorcism courses.He loved her so much, he either had no idea she was acting or he did and didn’t care because, as far as he was concerned, it worked. He didn't know the real reason why, but the items she spoke to were cleansed.Like the book, whose pages would turn by themselves. (Poppycock, she’d said, the pages were 70gsm paper, the slightest breeze through the slightest crack of an open window would make them turn). And the necklace, the centremost brown crystal of which would display the face of the actress if viewed at a certain angle. (Rubbish, she’d said, a trick of the shadows, cured by wiping off the caked-in grime). And the doll, which would move on its own at night. (That one had taken some explaining, especially since Mrs. Dingle died, but he really had been sick with what they later discovered was covid and whose to say hallucinations weren’t a symptom?)That particular event had made her faint so she’d asked him to stop. She should have been more forceful. Now she had to take a risk again.“Darling, fetch the shoes and…”She had raised both arms like a conductor, ready to bring her orchestra to attention, when Ted, beside her, gasped: “They’re gone!”Surprised by the abruptness of his words, Bethany turned toward the armchair to find they were, indeed, no longer there, and her heart sank.Ted was already hurrying to shut the door. “Don’t worry, darling, I won’t let them out! Can’t have any more neighbours dropping dead! Have a look for them will you?”“I’ll do no such thing,” said Beth, turning back to the book. “They probably just fell, Teddy. As long as they’re in the room the spell will work, now shush and let me chant.”Without waiting for his response she started reciting the words, words she could pronounce but whose meaning she couldn’t comprehend and didn’t need to. She just needed her mouth to voice them for as long as it took her to air-draw a certain symbol, separate her essence from the earthly plane and step back out of her body, into a red-tinged realm between worlds that were superimposed over each other, the world of the humans with all its physicality and the world of lost souls, barren, mist-covered hills that rolled into nothing.She shouldn’t be here.It had been a mistake coming back to release murderous Wilkins from Catcher in the Rye, and suicidal Garnett from her necklace and drowned Isabella from Annabelle. Before all that it had been fifty years since she escaped and it was partly curiosity–as well as fear that Seb, who really had freed Damien and Archibold, would discover her secret–that made her return, to see if She was still there.At first it seemed like She wasn't, which put her at ease, but then, when she was setting Isabella free, she’d heard Her moaning in the distance having picked up her scent and she’d had to rush the job and jump out.Causing her collapse in the human realm.Coming back again was dangerous so she had to be quick, her eyes going at once to Luminita, two and a half years old and naked apart from her shoes, running around the hazy mirage of her armchair, snatching up the blanket, casting it to the ground, kicking the table, making the teacup in the saucer rattle, a rattle that sounded like thunder in this world between worlds. Ahead, at the transparent sitting room door, an equally transparent Teddy had turned back towards his wife, whose physical body still stood at the table, arms raised, chanting. Beth grabbed Luminita by the arm, drawing the toddler’s surprised eyes to hers. She wanted to say something reassuring but then that horrible moan crept over the hills, closer than before, suggesting She was about to appear.There was no time for niceties so she stabbed a finger into a patch of red mist, drew a symbol and created an opening, allowing a spear of light to penetrate the void, a light that pierced Luminestra’s heart and caused her to dissolve into millions of dancing orbs, which were absorbed by the spear before the tear in the mist repaired itself and shut it back out.All that remained were the shoes. She wanted to move them closer to the chair but there was no time, the moan came again, now accompanied by a pair of yellow eyes, glaring from the mist behind her husband.Bethany Peace tore her eyes from her hunter and stepped back into her body, knowing the sudden shift would be jarring. The red mist faded. Her vision blurred, faded, then returned as she vomited while twisting from the table and falling to the floor, all energy drained from her body, a body she had stolen from a foolish, pregnant girl attending a seance decades before, to escape the void and take revenge on the bastards who’d killed her.A task she’d completed before going on to live the full and satisfying life she should have had in the first place, at the expense of somebody else. But life wasn’t fair.“Darling, are you okay?! Oh, I knew this was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have bought the shoes. I’m so, so sorry, love, please…”“I’m…okay,” she muttered, allowing her husband to carry her to the sofa, where he laid her gently and touched his handkerchief to her bleeding nose. “The shoes are…cleansed. They’re on the floor, must have knocked them off chair. Don’t…fuss. Don’t want to talk about it. Don’t want to do this anymore. Promise. No more ghosts.”“No more ghosts, I promise.”He bent over her and kissed her, the loyal, loving husband of somebody else, whose body and child she'd stolen, somebody who was still trapped in the mists between worlds, still waiting and searching after all this time.She could never let Ted know the truth and she could never go back there again, until the day she died, when there would be a reckoning. Before that though, she had a few years left with Ted, their children, their grandkids and more and she intended to make the most of it. 
","August 18, 2023 15:25","[[{'Michał Przywara': ""So naturally, the title grabs the eyes, but then damn - that twist! What a cool premise, and a cautionary tale about séances. It puts her distrust of Seb into an entirely different light. \n\nWe end up with a curious mix of cozy, at the start, with the seniors and the antiques and the everyday mysteries we might even call quaint, and then body-thieving soul-rending undead horror under the hood. And to top it all off, it's the ghost that's scared and we get to see it from her POV. \n\nOnly one minor thing stood out - his name appears to be Ted, e..."", 'time': '21:29 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Omg thanks for catching that ! It was Martin originally then changed and I missed that instance. Great save thank you Michal.\n\nAlso thank you for the comment. Yes I don't seem to be able to resist a spooky twist in my stories even when I try! This wasn't supposed to have a creepy ending lol \nCan't help it, the stories take over!"", 'time': '21:34 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Omg thanks for catching that ! It was Martin originally then changed and I missed that instance. Great save thank you Michal.\n\nAlso thank you for the comment. Yes I don't seem to be able to resist a spooky twist in my stories even when I try! This wasn't supposed to have a creepy ending lol \nCan't help it, the stories take over!"", 'time': '21:34 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Derrick, this is such a cool premise for a story. I enjoyed this a great deal. Ironic that the wife did all the work while the husband, who brought the shoes home, did nothing. Until the end when he helps his wife to the sofa. \nI loved this story and the take on the prompt. Well done. LF6', 'time': '17:02 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Ahh thanks Lily. It was a bit of a challenge as there was so much story it started off at 4000 words. Took a day to pare it down but even losing 1000 words it still covers everything. Amazing what you can edit out when you have to!', 'time': '18:20 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Lily Finch': 'You did well. Congrats. LF6', 'time': '19:08 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Ahh thanks Lily. It was a bit of a challenge as there was so much story it started off at 4000 words. Took a day to pare it down but even losing 1000 words it still covers everything. Amazing what you can edit out when you have to!', 'time': '18:20 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'You did well. Congrats. LF6', 'time': '19:08 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'You did well. Congrats. LF6', 'time': '19:08 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ashley Soto Prado': 'Wow, I love the spooky  twists to your stories. The title really catches the readers attention. Your plot twists are really creative!', 'time': '13:37 Sep 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ava Fermaint': ""Such a great story! I love the plot twist and it's so descriptive."", 'time': '14:29 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Cecilia Englishby': ""Great title and a very clever story! \nYou write really well and the whole thing just flowed.\n\nI love how pragmatic Beth was the whole time, until she got exposed and you get to appreciate her character's brilliance as well. 😂"", 'time': '12:01 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks again Cecilia! \nLove your feedback:) \nAlso love your bio! Final Space is amazing, devastated they couldn't finish it.\nAlso the spiderman games.... dying for Spidey 2 to come out. Playing resident evil village in the meantime and scaring the crap out of myself.\nAlso ..the fifth element!!! Corbin Dallas Multipass!\nGreat taste you have all around!"", 'time': '23:06 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Cecilia Englishby': ""You know I wasn't expecting many people to recognise Final Space, but I am delighted you did. \nIt was such an underrated and surprisingly deep show. I was gutted when I heard the news 😭\n\nAnd cheers for the feedback on my bio, I was thinking of making it a bit more professional but kinda like the openness of it. \nYour's is better, you've done some actual cool stuff man. 😎😎\n\nIf you are still waiting on Spidey by the time you finish your current gaming goal, may I recommend any of the Arkham games? (if you haven't played thrm ofc😂) \nIt uses the..."", 'time': '08:58 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks again Cecilia! \nLove your feedback:) \nAlso love your bio! Final Space is amazing, devastated they couldn't finish it.\nAlso the spiderman games.... dying for Spidey 2 to come out. Playing resident evil village in the meantime and scaring the crap out of myself.\nAlso ..the fifth element!!! Corbin Dallas Multipass!\nGreat taste you have all around!"", 'time': '23:06 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Cecilia Englishby': ""You know I wasn't expecting many people to recognise Final Space, but I am delighted you did. \nIt was such an underrated and surprisingly deep show. I was gutted when I heard the news 😭\n\nAnd cheers for the feedback on my bio, I was thinking of making it a bit more professional but kinda like the openness of it. \nYour's is better, you've done some actual cool stuff man. 😎😎\n\nIf you are still waiting on Spidey by the time you finish your current gaming goal, may I recommend any of the Arkham games? (if you haven't played thrm ofc😂) \nIt uses the..."", 'time': '08:58 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Cecilia Englishby': ""You know I wasn't expecting many people to recognise Final Space, but I am delighted you did. \nIt was such an underrated and surprisingly deep show. I was gutted when I heard the news 😭\n\nAnd cheers for the feedback on my bio, I was thinking of making it a bit more professional but kinda like the openness of it. \nYour's is better, you've done some actual cool stuff man. 😎😎\n\nIf you are still waiting on Spidey by the time you finish your current gaming goal, may I recommend any of the Arkham games? (if you haven't played thrm ofc😂) \nIt uses the..."", 'time': '08:58 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kaitlyn Wadsworth': 'A seriously creepy tale. Such an imagination.  What a twist. I wondered what the husband had bought at the start, and after the surprise about it being baby shoes, I knew something really inexplicable was going to happen. Very surprising and shocking. Had to keep reading.', 'time': '08:20 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Katharine Widdows': 'Hi Derrick, interesting piece. I laughed out loud in places and squirmed in others. Love the twist. it seems I found a fellow lover of the dark side.', 'time': '21:01 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'You certainly do. I love Three Questions!', 'time': '05:15 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'You certainly do. I love Three Questions!', 'time': '05:15 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Nina Herbst': 'Ted Googles exorcists and has probably liked and subscribed to their YouTube channels, while Beth is the real deal! This was all-around fantastic, Derrick!! I love how you reveal what she REALLY is, turning the story on it’s end. Or maybe, spinning it a la Linda Blair’s head in The Exorcist? 🤔', 'time': '15:31 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Lol yes all those ghosts ted wanted to exorcise and all the time his own wife is the most possessed of all. \nThanks Nina glad you enjoyed!', 'time': '16:54 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Lol yes all those ghosts ted wanted to exorcise and all the time his own wife is the most possessed of all. \nThanks Nina glad you enjoyed!', 'time': '16:54 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Well, this was spooky and weird🥺. Well done, of course.', 'time': '15:20 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Mary. Spooky and weird kind of sums my output up in a nutshell 😂 even when I try not to be it tends to end up there!\nThanks for liking!', 'time': '18:20 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Mary. Spooky and weird kind of sums my output up in a nutshell 😂 even when I try not to be it tends to end up there!\nThanks for liking!', 'time': '18:20 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Fine storyline and some phrases are eye-catching. I like the twist too.', 'time': '20:46 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Philip! I appreciate you commenting :)', 'time': '12:09 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Welcome.', 'time': '14:52 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thanks Philip! I appreciate you commenting :)', 'time': '12:09 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Welcome.', 'time': '14:52 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Welcome.', 'time': '14:52 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Wellity, wellity, wellity! Now that was a twisty turn bonanza of awesome. Serious man, the flow was brilliant, I was sad, then laughing, then wonder wtf was happening. When it ended I wanted more. This is so good, may deserve expanding or at least continuing.\n\nBrilliant submission!', 'time': '19:26 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Kevin! Thought we lost you to the Spirit realm 😄\nThank you so much! Glad you enjoyed. Yes there is a loooot of untold story here. Might call for a return visit!', 'time': '20:29 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': 'Haha, almost. Work, life, toddler, and a big slap of creative fatigue, needed a few weeks to put the feet up, read, watch, game, and recalibrate.', 'time': '20:44 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': ""I hear that. Mine is work, life , 4 teenagers and a dog lol creative fatigue hitting this week. I'm working on something but not sure if it will pan out. We'll see. \nCurrently playing resident evil village and scaring the crap out of myself. Very good though. \nI see you used to draw comics? I used to write them lol back in the noughties. Just for small press UK comics. It was fun!"", 'time': '20:47 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': 'Same, done the comic scene for five plus years as small press then ended up turning it into a multi media company. Made motions comics, animations, bit of everything. Always loved story telling and drew since I could hold a pencil so comic just fitted, but the worked that goes into just one page became exhausting and unfortunately, not financially worthwhile.\n\nIn the last two weeks I did start on a little Jestinia and Ardle novella, not sure if it will work out yet but we will see.', 'time': '20:54 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': 'Ha just noticed we both have entries on Irish comics wiki . My pen name was dirk van dom. I self published 3 issues of a comic with strips written by me but as you said the work in pulling it together was too much , also coordinating artists lol. And I had young kids and was going through some crazy times with the ex so I had to drop out of the scene.', 'time': '21:02 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Kevin! Thought we lost you to the Spirit realm 😄\nThank you so much! Glad you enjoyed. Yes there is a loooot of untold story here. Might call for a return visit!', 'time': '20:29 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Haha, almost. Work, life, toddler, and a big slap of creative fatigue, needed a few weeks to put the feet up, read, watch, game, and recalibrate.', 'time': '20:44 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': ""I hear that. Mine is work, life , 4 teenagers and a dog lol creative fatigue hitting this week. I'm working on something but not sure if it will pan out. We'll see. \nCurrently playing resident evil village and scaring the crap out of myself. Very good though. \nI see you used to draw comics? I used to write them lol back in the noughties. Just for small press UK comics. It was fun!"", 'time': '20:47 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': 'Same, done the comic scene for five plus years as small press then ended up turning it into a multi media company. Made motions comics, animations, bit of everything. Always loved story telling and drew since I could hold a pencil so comic just fitted, but the worked that goes into just one page became exhausting and unfortunately, not financially worthwhile.\n\nIn the last two weeks I did start on a little Jestinia and Ardle novella, not sure if it will work out yet but we will see.', 'time': '20:54 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': 'Ha just noticed we both have entries on Irish comics wiki . My pen name was dirk van dom. I self published 3 issues of a comic with strips written by me but as you said the work in pulling it together was too much , also coordinating artists lol. And I had young kids and was going through some crazy times with the ex so I had to drop out of the scene.', 'time': '21:02 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Haha, almost. Work, life, toddler, and a big slap of creative fatigue, needed a few weeks to put the feet up, read, watch, game, and recalibrate.', 'time': '20:44 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""I hear that. Mine is work, life , 4 teenagers and a dog lol creative fatigue hitting this week. I'm working on something but not sure if it will pan out. We'll see. \nCurrently playing resident evil village and scaring the crap out of myself. Very good though. \nI see you used to draw comics? I used to write them lol back in the noughties. Just for small press UK comics. It was fun!"", 'time': '20:47 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Kevin Logue': 'Same, done the comic scene for five plus years as small press then ended up turning it into a multi media company. Made motions comics, animations, bit of everything. Always loved story telling and drew since I could hold a pencil so comic just fitted, but the worked that goes into just one page became exhausting and unfortunately, not financially worthwhile.\n\nIn the last two weeks I did start on a little Jestinia and Ardle novella, not sure if it will work out yet but we will see.', 'time': '20:54 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': 'Ha just noticed we both have entries on Irish comics wiki . My pen name was dirk van dom. I self published 3 issues of a comic with strips written by me but as you said the work in pulling it together was too much , also coordinating artists lol. And I had young kids and was going through some crazy times with the ex so I had to drop out of the scene.', 'time': '21:02 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""I hear that. Mine is work, life , 4 teenagers and a dog lol creative fatigue hitting this week. I'm working on something but not sure if it will pan out. We'll see. \nCurrently playing resident evil village and scaring the crap out of myself. Very good though. \nI see you used to draw comics? I used to write them lol back in the noughties. Just for small press UK comics. It was fun!"", 'time': '20:47 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin Logue': 'Same, done the comic scene for five plus years as small press then ended up turning it into a multi media company. Made motions comics, animations, bit of everything. Always loved story telling and drew since I could hold a pencil so comic just fitted, but the worked that goes into just one page became exhausting and unfortunately, not financially worthwhile.\n\nIn the last two weeks I did start on a little Jestinia and Ardle novella, not sure if it will work out yet but we will see.', 'time': '20:54 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Derrick M Domican': 'Ha just noticed we both have entries on Irish comics wiki . My pen name was dirk van dom. I self published 3 issues of a comic with strips written by me but as you said the work in pulling it together was too much , also coordinating artists lol. And I had young kids and was going through some crazy times with the ex so I had to drop out of the scene.', 'time': '21:02 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin Logue': 'Same, done the comic scene for five plus years as small press then ended up turning it into a multi media company. Made motions comics, animations, bit of everything. Always loved story telling and drew since I could hold a pencil so comic just fitted, but the worked that goes into just one page became exhausting and unfortunately, not financially worthwhile.\n\nIn the last two weeks I did start on a little Jestinia and Ardle novella, not sure if it will work out yet but we will see.', 'time': '20:54 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Ha just noticed we both have entries on Irish comics wiki . My pen name was dirk van dom. I self published 3 issues of a comic with strips written by me but as you said the work in pulling it together was too much , also coordinating artists lol. And I had young kids and was going through some crazy times with the ex so I had to drop out of the scene.', 'time': '21:02 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Ha just noticed we both have entries on Irish comics wiki . My pen name was dirk van dom. I self published 3 issues of a comic with strips written by me but as you said the work in pulling it together was too much , also coordinating artists lol. And I had young kids and was going through some crazy times with the ex so I had to drop out of the scene.', 'time': '21:02 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Great cozy fantasy and what a funny title: the pace slowed for me a bit in the middle, but that ending was extraordinary!  Really didnt see that coming.', 'time': '12:32 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""The ending seems to be catching everyone by surprise. That's nice :)\nThanks for the feedback on the middle section, that helps and I will see if I can do something to perk it up there. I've a lot of back story to get through to set up the conclusion so that's always tricky to do without losing momentum.\nThanks again!"", 'time': '16:44 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""The ending seems to be catching everyone by surprise. That's nice :)\nThanks for the feedback on the middle section, that helps and I will see if I can do something to perk it up there. I've a lot of back story to get through to set up the conclusion so that's always tricky to do without losing momentum.\nThanks again!"", 'time': '16:44 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Olivia Lake': ""I didn't see that ending coming! This was such a fun ride, starting off with a cozy Ed and Lorraine Warren-eque couple and ending up in otherworld horror. So many pieces come together once you realize who (or what) Beth is."", 'time': '01:38 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Heehee yes indeed it benefits from a re-read once you understand whats going on with Beth. Tried to hint at it without making it overly obvious something was off with her, I think I succeeded. \nThanks for reading and commenting Olivia, it is super appreciated!', 'time': '07:54 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Heehee yes indeed it benefits from a re-read once you understand whats going on with Beth. Tried to hint at it without making it overly obvious something was off with her, I think I succeeded. \nThanks for reading and commenting Olivia, it is super appreciated!', 'time': '07:54 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'L J': 'Nicely done ! My kind of story. Agree with the other comments: waiting for part 2...LOVED IT', 'time': '18:47 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Hey thanks LJ! This is another example of a story that took on a direction of its own as I wrote it, I never had that ending in mind when I started, but thats usually the case with me. I have the idea and just trust that a suitable ending will materialise as I go through the story!\n\nThanks for the comment, very much appreciated, I'll check out some more of your stories soon!"", 'time': '07:56 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'L J': ""that's what I like about writing..the characters go wherever they want! Sometimes, I get surprised too! \n\nThanks for taking the time to read mine: will look for your comments"", 'time': '20:42 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Hey thanks LJ! This is another example of a story that took on a direction of its own as I wrote it, I never had that ending in mind when I started, but thats usually the case with me. I have the idea and just trust that a suitable ending will materialise as I go through the story!\n\nThanks for the comment, very much appreciated, I'll check out some more of your stories soon!"", 'time': '07:56 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'L J': ""that's what I like about writing..the characters go wherever they want! Sometimes, I get surprised too! \n\nThanks for taking the time to read mine: will look for your comments"", 'time': '20:42 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'L J': ""that's what I like about writing..the characters go wherever they want! Sometimes, I get surprised too! \n\nThanks for taking the time to read mine: will look for your comments"", 'time': '20:42 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Wendy M': 'Such a clever story, I love the line “A professional you found by searching ‘exorcists near me’ on Google Maps.\nFabulous', 'time': '12:05 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Hey Wendy, thank you so much! Yes I like that line too, just popped into my head as I Was writing it. \nThanks for reading and commenting!', 'time': '07:56 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Hey Wendy, thank you so much! Yes I like that line too, just popped into my head as I Was writing it. \nThanks for reading and commenting!', 'time': '07:56 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ty Warmbrodt': ""That ending! I did not see that coming. Feels like there's a prequel to this one. Horror and suspense seem to be your niche. You craft a story so cleverly and entertainingly. Loved this one. I look forward to more."", 'time': '20:51 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thank you Ty. Yes I do enjoy creating little labyrinths in my stories with a secret hidden at the centre. Some work out better than others. Glad this one did the trick for you!', 'time': '22:29 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Thank you Ty. Yes I do enjoy creating little labyrinths in my stories with a secret hidden at the centre. Some work out better than others. Glad this one did the trick for you!', 'time': '22:29 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Miller': 'Very interesting ideas, Derrick. Cosy elements combined with creepiness and outright horror. Good work!', 'time': '21:37 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Chris. Hopefully didn't veer too far away from the cosiness lol I brought it back at the end. Can't help myself always seem to go towards something spooky or wierd in my tales."", 'time': '08:55 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Derrick M Domican': ""Thanks Chris. Hopefully didn't veer too far away from the cosiness lol I brought it back at the end. Can't help myself always seem to go towards something spooky or wierd in my tales."", 'time': '08:55 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,ahfxem,Storm in a Teacup,Hana Lang,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ahfxem/,/short-story/ahfxem/,Fiction,0,['Fantasy'],25 likes,"
From a one-room cabin in the cliffs overlooking the port of Pettra, an old woman watched through a spyglass as a messenger boy raced down the stairs to the docks, letter in hand. She wore her hair short, the ends curling at her temples instead of the long braid traditional to wives and widows. The only ornamentation she donned was a compass hanging on a fine golden chain around her neck. Though her age was clear from the deep lines on her face, wrinkles drawn by a lifetime under the sun, she stood straight and tall. Her only concession to her aging body was a hand resting lightly on the windowsill before her. Like the woman herself, the room at her back was modest in appearance, sparsely furnished. There was a cot in the corner. A quilt and a half-finished knitting project abandoned on a rocking chair by the fire. Immediately to the right stood a small card table with a chipped tea set, nothing more than a porcelain kettle and two empty, mismatched cups. The old woman squinted carefully, tracking the boy’s progress. The kind of boys who did odd jobs around the port were known as dock spiders. From this distance, the name couldn’t be more fitting. The messenger boy scurried along the docks, weaving around sailors, traders, repairmen, and officials before finally coming to a stop at an unassuming merchant ship. Satisfied, the old woman set the spyglass aside and returned to the rocking chair. She hummed under her breath as she set about making a pot of tea. A storm was brewing. … “A letter for you, Captain.” Ansel looked up from the barrel of grain he’d been inspecting. It had been not one hour since they’d docked in Pettra. Ansel deposited a coin into the messenger boy’s waiting hand, staring at the seal. He recognized it instantly, the rising sun pressed into dark red ink. The second seal of Zora Lasylle. He shook his head and tucked the letter into his coat, exchanging a word with his first mate before retreating belowdecks to read it. The crew could ready their haul for market his supervision. After days at sea, everything Ansel owned was slightly damp, from the clothes on his back to his maps and ledgers to the bedroll in his cabin belowdecks. He sat at his desk watching the corners of the crisp parchment droop slightly in the waterlogged air. The messy scrawl was nearly illegible, but the instructions were clear: Ren has docked in Pettra, the letter read. Bring her to the eastern cliffs overlooking the port at first storm, likely around noon today. Ansel shook his head ruefully. The skies were clear for miles, but he knew better than to doubt Zora Lasylle. Though it had been nearly four decades since he had last sailed under her, his captain had spoken. It would be as she wished. … To sail under Zora Lasylle was to enjoy certain privileges: the freedom to dock at major ports, for one. No one knew why Zora – a notorious pirate who raided villages, fenced precious gems and spices, and went after navy vessels and slaving ships alike – could dock alongside nobles and traders unchallenged.Bribes, people whispered. Blackmail. Granted, Zora never advertised her status as a pirate captain around port. They didn’t dock often, preferring to put down anchor in unmapped coves. Her ship was called the Sea Nymph, the same generic name that most trading ships bore, and she always ordered the flags switched out whenever they docked in port. The navy did come after her on occasion. Bounty hunters, too. Early in her captaincy, before Ansel worked for her, there had been a time when notorious pirate ships were run aground every other week. But when the navy came for Zora’s Sea Nymph, weeks of violent, unpredictable storms prevented them from engaging in a shoot-out – dog fighting that the navy, unmatched in its firepower, would surely win. Instead, the chase resembled a regatta through a storm, and no one was a better sailor in rough weather than Zora. That was when the legend of Zora Lasylle really began to take shape. Storm caller, people named her. Ansel crewed for Zora from ages six to eighteen. He saw firsthand Zora’s uncanny knack for predicting storms. But storm caller? Pirates and sailors were a superstitious lot. It was hard, sometimes, to see where superstition and coincidence might bleed into reality. When he first met Zora, Ansel was a dock spider, one of those starving children that loitered near the docks trying to find work scrubbing hulls or running messages. Most dock spiders avoided pirates, but Ansel had been desperate – six years old, alone and afraid. A few jobs in, Zora offered him a spot on her crew. Ansel spent the first several weeks onboard alternating miserably between swabbing the deck and retching over the side of the ship. It was crawling above deck to ease his stomach one night that he saw Zora Lasylle standing on the quarterdeck and gazing out to sea. Sickness all but forgotten in his fascination, he watched as she spit in her teacup, swirled the contents with her finger, and then poured it into the open sea. Within a minute or two, storm clouds gathered overhead. Ansel looked on as Zora tipped her face back to welcome the rain, reveling in the storm. … Ansel wondered about Zora’s penchant for recruiting dock spiders for years. Was it strategic, vain, or both? Those in Zora’s crew who began as dock spiders worshipped her like no one else. She was at once their captain and their savior. Ansel, for his part, spent his entire childhood fascinated by the pirate captain. For all her cruelty, her turbulent moods, he trusted her implicitly until the day that Zora had dropped him over the side of the Sea Nymph. It was his eighteenth birthday, or at least the day that he celebrated as such, and Ansel foolishly hoped her summons was a good thing. A promotion, maybe, or even just a kind word. Instead, Zora had handed him a small sack of coins – payment owed – and tossed him onto the docks as the ship departed. “Find work on another ship. You’re no pirate, Ansel,” she had said, as close to gentle as Zora Lasylle ever was. “Your face is too honest.” Shame curled in his belly whenever he remembered how he’d begged to stay. The worst had been when Ren, a crew member ten years his junior, had taken a hammer to his fingers as he’d grasped the edge of the ship, trying to scramble aboard as the crew pushed off. “Leave,” Ren hissed at him. “Go, before she decides you’re drawing unwanted attention and decides to kill you instead.”Lying crumpled on the docks, Ansel could see the wisdom in her words. Even now, dock officials were walking their way. He scrambled to his feet and ran. That first night had been the worst, wandering Pettra in a state of shock. Bruised and battered, he limped his way inland. His fingers swelled where Ren had broken them; two would later heal crooked. He bore the mark of Zora Lasylle’s crew branded on his arm, a calligraphic letter Z like a bolt of lightning, but had none of her protection. He was six years old again, a dock spider, lost and alone. It took three hungry weeks to find work aboard a merchant ship. …Fifteen years after that unceremonious dismissal, a letter bearing the seal of a rising sun found him. It was brief to the point of wasting paper – a single line of Zora’s messy scrawl: Find Ren and send her to Pettra. Tell no one. There was no signature, but he recognized the handwriting instantly. Zora hadn’t bothered with listing threats. She didn’t need to. The letter was addressed to his rank of first mate and the name of the ship he served on. That meant she knew the ship’s route, which meant she could easily dismantle their trading operations if he defied her. He turned his compass over in his hands as he thought. It was bronze and shaped like a pocket watch. Zora had given it to him back when he crewed for her. She’d pickpocketed it off a navy commander. For years, it had been the nicest thing he owned.Zora cultivated loyalty in a lot of ways, but casual generosity was perhaps the most surprising. Ansel knew better than to think of it as a kindness, but as a boy, it had been one of many reasons he’d worshipped her. Even after Zora booted him from her crew, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to pawn it. Hungry as he was, he couldn’t let go of the familiar weight in his pocket. She’d had been right all along, of course – Ansel was no pirate; he had no taste for easy money or revenge. He couldn’t even hold to anger.In the week that followed the arrival of Zora’s first letter, Ansel feigned injury and took leave from the merchant ship to avoid the suspicion that would come with searching for a pirate. It took several more weeks and cost him a small fortune, but he found Ren, who captained her own ship now. After delivering Zora’s summons, Ansel bought passage on Ren’s ship to Pettra. “Zora didn’t ask for you,” Ren said skeptically when he handed over the coin. “If you ignore this, I will be the one who bears the punishment,” Ansel replied grimly.  … When they arrived in Pettra that day, Zora was already waiting. Despite the bustle of activity on the docks, despite the intervening years, Ansel recognized her immediately. Officials, dock spiders, and traders alike cut a wide berth around her. The pirate wore boots and trousers as she always had; her compass – which Ansel had never seen her consult – hung around her neck. The fine merchant’s coat around her shoulders must’ve been a concession to port sensibilities.She spared little more than a glare for Ansel as she greeted Ren and invited her to the Sea Nymph. “I wrote nothing of you coming to Pettra, Ansel.” “In fairness, you wrote very little.” Zora shook her head mockingly, casting her eyes to the sky. “Even now, he expects fairness.” “Why send me to find Ren?”“Use your head, boy. Pirate ships sail at their whim, but not merchant ships. You were easy to find, and I had more important matters to see to.”“Truly nothing more than money and convenience?”Zora shrugged. “Why go looking for something that can be delivered to my doorstep?” Ansel studied her. “I believe that that is part of it.” He knew better than to demand more answers – none would be forthcoming. Zora turned to leave. “Why did you want Ren?” he called after her anyway.Zora just smiled over her shoulder, all-knowing and enigmatic. “I believe that some legends shouldn’t die.” Ansel wouldn’t understand her meaning until many years later, when he ran into Ren on the docks of another faraway port. He nearly didn’t recognize her – she’d cut her hair short so that the ends curled at her temples, and wore Zora’s compass around her neck. Surprised into warmth, he greeted her by name. Ren pinned him with a glare. “My name is Zora Lasylle.” … Just as Zora said in her letter, the heavy rains began around noon. By the time Ren and Ansel reached the top of the cliffs, they were both soaked through. Zora was nowhere in sight, but a solitary cabin stood at the top of the stairs. Ren nodded at it in question and Ansel shrugged. “Must be.” But there was no answer when he knocked at the door. Ren reached past him and tried the doorknob. Ansel scoffed, but sure enough, it was unlocked.  With the black storm clouds overhead and only the light of the fireplace within, the room was so full of shadows that it seemed to breath in time with the flickering flames of the fireplace. Or maybe it was the old woman dozing in the nearby rocking chair with which the room sighed in time. Her soft gray curls were cut short around her temples, and a patchwork quilt was carefully wrapped around her shoulders to ward off a chill. A black cat curled at her feet and a half-knit sock slouched in her lap. There was a chipped tea set on the table to her right, a steaming porcelain kettle and two mismatched cups with tea leaves gathered at the bottom. Ansel took in a sharp breath. Zora Lasylle had grown old. To see her now was like seeing double – at once, the fearless captain he had crewed for and the old woman before him. In the twelve or so years that he had spent on the Sea Nymph, he had never seen her asleep.  “She looks like a grandmother,” Ansel said in a hushed voice.Ren elbowed him sharply. “Captain,” she said. The old woman blinked herself awake. Her eyes skipped over Ansel – had she heard his remark, or did she simply not care? – to land on the woman next to him. “Ah, Zora,” his captain said, a smile splitting her face. She ignored Ansel entirely. Ren bowed her head to the old woman. “Hello, Zora,” she replied. Ansel sighed. “I’ll take my leave, Captain,” he said quietly to the old woman in the chair. The door closed quietly behind him on the incongruous scene that was Zora Lasylle, the old woman, facing Zora Lasylle, the legend living on.… When Ren emerged half an hour later, her eyes were red and she was carrying a teacup. She seemed utterly unsurprised to see Ansel standing at the edge of the cliffs, shoulders hunched against the rain. He’d trudged halfway down the treacherous stairs to the docks before turning around and climbing back up. Ren came to stand next to him and for a moment, they stared out at the waves crashing far below the sheer face of the cliffs. Was she crying? It was impossible to tell in the rain. Studiously ignoring Ansel, Ren let the teacup fill halfway with rain and spit in it. She used her finger to mix the rainwater, spit, and dregs of tea before dumping it into the angry waves below. Thunder crashed, so loud that Ansel flinched. Lightening flashed a few seconds later, lighting up the white caps. Ansel was reminded, eerily so, of the first storm he’d ever sailed with Zora Lasylle.  Ren turned to him. “You should say your goodbyes before you leave port.” She stowed the teacup in her jacket and headed for the stairs without another word. The storm raged on as he crossed the short distance from the edge of the cliffs to Zora’s door. Entering, he was struck again by the sight before him – Zora Lasylle, an old woman. “Why is the door unlocked?” Zora glanced at him, dismissive and as unsurprised as Ren. She held the cat in her arms now. “Please, Ansel. You’re dripping all over the floor.” “Isn’t it dangerous? Anyone can walk in –”“Clearly,” Zora interrupted.“– and you have no shortage of enemies –”“I’m aware, Ansel. I may look like a grandmother, but I’m neither senile nor defenseless,” Zora said crisply. “Ask what you wish to ask and be on your way.” “No,” Ansel said. Conversations with Zora never worked as intended if she was the one steering. Besides, it wasn’t that he was short on questions. He just knew better than to expect satisfactory answers. Maybe goodbyes weren’t about questions or answers anyway. Ansel turned his compass over in his hands, staring at its polished bronze face. “I never thanked you. Not for rescuing me from life as a dock spider, and not for rescuing me from life as a pirate. But I owe you a great deal.”Zora looked as surprised as he had ever seen her. She stared out the window for a long moment, watching the storm rage. Thunder boomed; the coals in the fireplace hissed and popped; rain drummed down on the roof. At last, she spoke. “I am eighty-three years old and not long for this world, Ansel, but Zora Lasylle lives on. Consider your debts paid.”Ansel bowed his head to the old woman. “Goodbye, Captain.” He would never see Zora Lasylle again. At least, not this version of her. 
","August 19, 2023 03:08","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Hana!\nCongratulations on the shortlist! I love a good pirate story and a vast cast of characters. It’s always so impressive to me when riders on Reedsy manage to pack so many individuals into their story with 3000 words or less. You have characters who are worthy of  admiration because of their exceptional courage, leadership, and intellect. I loved them all. Nice work!!', 'time': '15:40 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin B': ""I really felt like you built this world that was both familiar and new. The language was very evocative, and I'm looking forward to reading more from you."", 'time': '16:31 Aug 29, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Bob Long Jr': 'I love a good sea faring tale and this one was a great read. Thank you for writing and sharing it. I did go back and read the opening. It was the Original Zora in her end of story age. Tough love .. kicking  Ansel off the ship .. and I believe Zora really did love the boy. She had given him a compass, after all. And she wanted to see him again at the end of live. Zora did have a heart but it was pretty well hidden. Good story Hana !', 'time': '15:38 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'This week seems to be overflowing with wonderful works. Congrats.', 'time': '21:27 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Leland Mesford': ""That was a great spin on a pirate tale. Too bad we never learned about Zora's unique connection to stormy weather."", 'time': '23:16 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Welcome to Reedsy and congrats on shortlist.🥳. Top ship shape story.', 'time': '19:07 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'DR Forge': 'Well done! I really like the storm and water imagery used throughout. I would love to read a series set in the same world.', 'time': '19:33 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,m6wosn,Life by Numbers,Howard Halsall,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/m6wosn/,/short-story/m6wosn/,Fiction,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Friendship', 'Fiction']",25 likes,"
Arthur narrowed his eyes and studied his moustache in the bathroom mirror; a cut-throat razor in one hand and trimming scissors in the other, poised and ready for battle. He’d maintained a pencil-thin moustache throughout his career in the Welsh Guards; from humble squaddie to regimental sergeant major; it was his trademark. Today it looked immaculate, as always, perched three-eighths of an inch below his nose and stretched across his upper lip like a fox moth caterpillar with rigor mortis.#There was no doubt Arthur was a strict disciplinarian and a perfectionist who clung to his principles like a bearded mussel adhered onto a rock at high tide. However, after thirty years of barking commands on Combermere’s parade ground, his throat said, “No more!” Arthur’s battalion of guardsmen breathed a collective sigh when he marched off to a desk job even if, in secret, they missed his fearsome presence. He’d drilled them to within a whisker of their lives so they could perform royal duties without breaking a sweat. They all owed him a debt of gratitude in that respect, and later would thank him in combat when action was required without question.#Shelley had said it was a relief for one and all when his booming vocal cords gave up the fight. She was correct, as always, bless her. They’d had a long and happy marriage until the Alzheimer’s colonised her mind and claimed her cheery soul. During Arthur’s fifty years of military service, Shelley had been the mouse that roared, but only when he stood out of line, which was rare in retrospect. Arthur only played devil’s advocate with her when he felt frisky and relished their playful badinage. Shelley was bright and quick-witted enough to keep him in check. However, he was always respectful, and why wouldn’t he be? Shelley was up early every day, preparing a stout English breakfast for him, but only after completing her other chores. By six o’clock she’d have ironed his shirt, polished his brass buttons and pressed his trousers, furnishing them with razor sharp creases. Arthur may have instilled fear in his men; woe betide those failing to meet his benchmark; but only because his standard of dress was so high and she helped maintain it. #Arthur and Shelley were old school; disciplined and dedicated to a life of duty. They both followed the orders to the T and never once questioned military wisdom. When the government closed down the sangars on the Irish border, they packed their bags, said goodbye, and left for the mainland without hesitation. Here today and gone tomorrow, they departed with no regrets; that’s the military life.Arthur’s only complaint was that the new generation were too smart for their own good and needed educating. The army doesn’t need know-alls who question commands, he’d said to Shelley. We need men who’ll follow orders. But surely clever soldiers are useful, dear? She’d said. No way, he’d said. Soldiers who think are useless and put everyone in jeopardy. Why’s that, dear? When I say “dig,” it’s because I need a hole digging, end of story. I don’t want some clever dick asking me, “how deep?” I’ll tell them when to stop digging and that’s that. You’re ever so strict, dear. I have to be, love, that’s what the military’s all about. Shelley could be the devil’s advocate, too. She knew very well what Arthur’s job entailed and “orders were orders,” but she liked to tease him and deflate his ego once in a while; and show him who was the boss.Arthur was a menacing presence on the parade ground, but Shelley knew him as a loving husband; a pussy-cat with a lion’s mane. She’d listen with pride as his roar echoed round the barracks. He was the mighty voice of the British Army and yelled commands all day long. #Shelley’s circle of friends on the base never saw Arthur’s gentle side. They asked, How can you stand that endless shouting? You get used to it after a couple of decades, she’d said.They presumed he was an ogre and a bully, but she put them straight. He doesn’t shout all the time.Well, when does he stop, Shelley?She’d just smiled and said, No comment.What did they know? If the country went to war, Shelley knew all their husband’s lives would be safe under Arthur’s command. The men feared his wrath, however they trusted his judgement, and that was important. #Arthur glanced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and considered his options for the day, the week, and the years ahead. He was still in good shape for eighty and enjoyed an active outdoor life, though it wouldn’t be the same without Shelley. She had organised their holidays, social life and all their family celebrations.He examined all his crags, crow’s feet and gnarly lines on his face and considered how well she knew him. Shelley’s talent was knowing what he needed, as much as what he’d appreciate for his birthday and at Christmas. It wasn’t until the latter stages of Shelley’s illness that he’d received endless boxes of gift-wrapped shaving sets. He had twenty shaving brushes at the last count and countless packs of replacement blades for his safety razor. He hinted that an electric trimmer would be handy and Shelley laughed out loud. That’s all very modern, dear, she’d said, snorting. But it’s just wrong and feels like cheating.#Arthur was faithful to Shelley during their marriage and courageous throughout Shelley’s twenty years long spiral into dementia. Her descent into the realm of the unwell was an incremental journey of painful little steps. Shelley’s entire being fell apart before Arthur’s eyes; fragmenting into painful shards. She was unrecognisable at the end, like an awkward mound of colourful jigsaw pieces that once described a beautiful rolling landscape. When the latter stages of dementia had taken hold and she barely knew him, he held tight and maintained his faith even when hope had all but disappeared. Keeping sane and maintaining his patience became the biggest battle of his career by far.#In the end, it was his pencil-thin moustache that gave Shelley a solid anchor of recognition and an aide-mémoire. That familiar strand of facial hair tethered her to reality by a thin whisker and jogged the withering grey cells back to life like an elderly motor spluttering on fumes by the side of life’s highway. You're Arthur, aren’t you, dear? She asked, clutching his arm.Yes, love, he’d said, stroking her cheek. I’ll always be here for you.I know who you are, silly, she’d said. There’s no fooling you. Arthur chuckled.He never failed to respond with patience, as if it was all a guessing game, and she’d known the answers all along and was just pretending. There were days when Shelley would feel lost and panic, and his affectionate manner settled her, restoring her dignity and peace of mind.#Arthur had dedicated his life to duty, but beyond that; he’d loved every delicate bone in her body. Looking back at their marriage, he knew he was a lucky man because they’d both remained happy even when Shelley’s behaviour first became erratic. Before the official diagnosis, Arthur often woke up at night by himself, next to a bed space. He would search the house for Shelley, knowing everyday objects were potential hazards and sources of harm; hot pans, knives and kitchen implements were all problematic. On one occasion, he’d heard the distant sound of a vacuum cleaner and discovered Shelley in the front garden in her dressing gown, hoovering up rogue dandelions and clover from the lawn. Inhaling and rubbing his furry upper lip, Arthur had approached his wife, determined not to startle her, and encircled his protective arms around her shoulders in a gentle embrace. Arthur reassured her bewildered mind, distracted her attention from the daisies, and shepherded her back upstairs, despite her protestations. He’d never mention the incidents afterwards and if Shelley had shocking moments of clarity, Arthur avoided any discussion, making light of the matter, so as not to cause her undue stress. #Last week’s funeral had been a quiet affair and the closest Arthur had ever come to crying in public. In his brief speech, Arthur said Shelley was the best thing that happened in his life and recalled the joy they shared and the love she’d given him. He spoke about the little things she’d done: sewing on his tunic buttons, buying his first monogrammed shaving brush and baking his favourite homemade rhubarb pie. Arthur summed up the occasion as a last farewell to his wife and an emotional “auf wiedersehen,” however, at eighty years old, all he had left was a moustache and a hoarse whisper.#The subsequent few days were hellish for Arthur as he drifted from his daily routine. Marooned in his deserted home, regular meals went to pot, and his regimented sleep pattern soon evaporated. Arthur had forsaken all obligations and without Shelley to tease him, he’d gone unshaven for a week. He was a mess and couldn’t stop thinking about their life together.What would Shelley have said? She’d have had words with him, that’s what.Arthur made his way upstairs, intent on ending his distress. He prepared his soap brush, daubed his hairy face in foaming lather, and considered his future. His retirement was bleak without his soulmate to look after.Arthur picked up his cut-throat razor and snapped back the blade, exposing its sharp edge. He raised the cut-throat to his chin and stroked the honed steel over his silver stubble, jettisoning the detritus in the porcelain sink. Arthur narrowed his eyes and studied his soapy moustache in the bathroom mirror one last time. With Shelley’s quivering smile in mind, he raised his trimming scissors, snipped away the thicker strands, and removed the remaining bristles with the gleaming blade. That’s better, he said, twitching his nose and sniffing. A definite improvement. Arthur chuckled under his breath. I should’ve done that years ago.  THE END
","August 19, 2023 03:38","[[{'Scott Christenson': ""Arthur is the picture of dedication. you bring a lot of sympathy to why he's so gruff with the soldiers and the need to toughen them up. And with Shelley it was a very accurate picture of dementia. It was heartwarming the details of how Arthur would fix things for her and cover up her mistakes. And the little cliffhanger at the end worked perfectly too."", 'time': '08:41 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Scott,\nThank you for taking the time to read and comment on my latest story. Your brief analysis was concise and to the point. I’m glad you picked up on the ending and relieved it worked for you. I was worried that it was a bit melodramatic, so your positive comment is a relief and much appreciated.\nTake care \nHH', 'time': '00:20 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Scott,\nThank you for taking the time to read and comment on my latest story. Your brief analysis was concise and to the point. I’m glad you picked up on the ending and relieved it worked for you. I was worried that it was a bit melodramatic, so your positive comment is a relief and much appreciated.\nTake care \nHH', 'time': '00:20 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Olivia Lake': 'This was really powerful. Love the framing device of Arthur at in front of the mirror. Shaving off his moustache felt so cathartic in the end, and it was all due to how well you built and layered his relationship with Shelley.', 'time': '03:54 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hello Olivia,\nThank you for reading my story and sharing your thoughts. I’m pleased you enjoyed it and relieved the ending worked. I was concerned that the final moments might be a bit melodramatic and rewrote it several times before I was happy to upload it.\nTake care\nHH', 'time': '04:06 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hello Olivia,\nThank you for reading my story and sharing your thoughts. I’m pleased you enjoyed it and relieved the ending worked. I was concerned that the final moments might be a bit melodramatic and rewrote it several times before I was happy to upload it.\nTake care\nHH', 'time': '04:06 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Georgia Blair': ""Your characterization is excellent, driving this poignant story from beginning to end. Your deft and subtle nudging prompts us to wonder whether Arthur might meet this emotional challenge with his trademark no-nonsense decisiveness. But at the end we're left with the sense that he will now move on to life without Shelley with the same fortitude that saw him through all his military postings. After all, as you pointed out, that's the military way. \nThumbs up! :)"", 'time': '12:51 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hello Georgia,\nThank you for taking the time to read and review my story. I’m pleased you enjoyed it and flattered by your comments; they’re much appreciated. Regarding Arthur’s future; we can only hope he will put his best foot forward and march on without his dear wife; it’s the British way, of course and encapsulates the notion of “the stiff upper lip.” \nTake care\nHH', 'time': '22:38 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hello Georgia,\nThank you for taking the time to read and review my story. I’m pleased you enjoyed it and flattered by your comments; they’re much appreciated. Regarding Arthur’s future; we can only hope he will put his best foot forward and march on without his dear wife; it’s the British way, of course and encapsulates the notion of “the stiff upper lip.” \nTake care\nHH', 'time': '22:38 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Steffen Lettau': 'That is quite the sad love story, though I do like how he manages to get through one more day at the end.', 'time': '16:19 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Steffen,\nThank you for reading my story and sharing your reaction. I trust it wasn’t too sad for you and hope you enjoyed the characters.\nTake care\nHH', 'time': '23:51 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Steffen,\nThank you for reading my story and sharing your reaction. I trust it wasn’t too sad for you and hope you enjoyed the characters.\nTake care\nHH', 'time': '23:51 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Zyn Marlin': ""What a sweet little story! I loved seeing the different sides to Arthur, and you treated Shelley's decline so tenderly and compassionately. I was also glad that Arthur did not take drastic measures at the end! Having him shave off the moustache felt very satisfying as an ending - it served its purpose and now it's time to see what the new future holds for him. I enjoyed it very much!"", 'time': '05:57 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Zyn,\nThanks for reading my story and leaving your positive comments; they’re much appreciated. I found it tricky to balance both characters’ stories and create sufficient empathy to make the ending work, however your remarks are encouraging in that respect.\nTake care\nHH', 'time': '06:06 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Zyn,\nThanks for reading my story and leaving your positive comments; they’re much appreciated. I found it tricky to balance both characters’ stories and create sufficient empathy to make the ending work, however your remarks are encouraging in that respect.\nTake care\nHH', 'time': '06:06 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Chris Campbell': 'Howard,\n\nA beautiful and moving story told with the sharpest of writing skill. It\'s message of love and dedication shone through so brightly, that I shed a tear for the loss of Shelley. \n\nYou taught me a new word, ""Badinage."" Thank you for that.\n\nI loved the following line: ""She was unrecognisable in the end, like awkward mounds of colourful jigsaw pieces that once described a beautiful rolling landscape."" What a great description of Shelley\'s decline.\n\nCoincidentally, my story this week (still in progress as of Aug 23) references the Welsh ...', 'time': '02:39 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Chris,\nThank you for reading my story and sharing your thoughts. I’m pleased it hit the right notes and relieved it didn’t strike a melodramatic chord. It was difficult to balance all the elements and I had several rewrites to make it readable. So phew! It seems like I cracked it; although if I had another read through, I’d probably change it all again. Note to self - put it down and walk away….\nI look forward to reading your Welsh Guards story when you release a final draft, unless you require a work in progress review?\nAnd “yes,” of al...', 'time': '03:42 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Chris Campbell': ""The story is a first part of what may turn out to be a compendium of adventures involving an ex-Major of the Welsh Guards and his former adjutant (now his assistant) who both work in a lesser known but curious department of the post office. Following the cryptic clues of an ancient book of Egyptian spells that turns up on the desk of the Major, they are drawn into the pursuit of the meaning of the book that mystically transports them to various times within the Earth's history.\n\nI'm thinking of the old Saturday morning movie cliffhanger type..."", 'time': '04:28 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Chris,\nIn response to your idea, which sounds intriguing, may I suggest that your former major accepts a post in a curious department in Whitehall; maybe he’s a consultant for an obscure office within the Ministry of Defence. It would seem an appropriate career move to utilise his military knowledge and a suitable job for a Guard’s officer; given the old boy network and all those connections…. Just a thought and not entirely an arbitrary suggestion; but that’s another story :)\nAnyway, I’m sure it’ll work well, judging from the examples o...', 'time': '04:56 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Chris Campbell': ""Hi Howard,\nThanks for your suggestion; however, I have discovered a department at the post office not too widely known. I'm keeping my cards to my chest on this one, until publication.\nThe MOD, I reserve for my Anthony Pratt stories."", 'time': '07:04 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Chris,\nThank you for reading my story and sharing your thoughts. I’m pleased it hit the right notes and relieved it didn’t strike a melodramatic chord. It was difficult to balance all the elements and I had several rewrites to make it readable. So phew! It seems like I cracked it; although if I had another read through, I’d probably change it all again. Note to self - put it down and walk away….\nI look forward to reading your Welsh Guards story when you release a final draft, unless you require a work in progress review?\nAnd “yes,” of al...', 'time': '03:42 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': ""The story is a first part of what may turn out to be a compendium of adventures involving an ex-Major of the Welsh Guards and his former adjutant (now his assistant) who both work in a lesser known but curious department of the post office. Following the cryptic clues of an ancient book of Egyptian spells that turns up on the desk of the Major, they are drawn into the pursuit of the meaning of the book that mystically transports them to various times within the Earth's history.\n\nI'm thinking of the old Saturday morning movie cliffhanger type..."", 'time': '04:28 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Chris,\nIn response to your idea, which sounds intriguing, may I suggest that your former major accepts a post in a curious department in Whitehall; maybe he’s a consultant for an obscure office within the Ministry of Defence. It would seem an appropriate career move to utilise his military knowledge and a suitable job for a Guard’s officer; given the old boy network and all those connections…. Just a thought and not entirely an arbitrary suggestion; but that’s another story :)\nAnyway, I’m sure it’ll work well, judging from the examples o...', 'time': '04:56 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Chris Campbell': ""Hi Howard,\nThanks for your suggestion; however, I have discovered a department at the post office not too widely known. I'm keeping my cards to my chest on this one, until publication.\nThe MOD, I reserve for my Anthony Pratt stories."", 'time': '07:04 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': ""The story is a first part of what may turn out to be a compendium of adventures involving an ex-Major of the Welsh Guards and his former adjutant (now his assistant) who both work in a lesser known but curious department of the post office. Following the cryptic clues of an ancient book of Egyptian spells that turns up on the desk of the Major, they are drawn into the pursuit of the meaning of the book that mystically transports them to various times within the Earth's history.\n\nI'm thinking of the old Saturday morning movie cliffhanger type..."", 'time': '04:28 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Chris,\nIn response to your idea, which sounds intriguing, may I suggest that your former major accepts a post in a curious department in Whitehall; maybe he’s a consultant for an obscure office within the Ministry of Defence. It would seem an appropriate career move to utilise his military knowledge and a suitable job for a Guard’s officer; given the old boy network and all those connections…. Just a thought and not entirely an arbitrary suggestion; but that’s another story :)\nAnyway, I’m sure it’ll work well, judging from the examples o...', 'time': '04:56 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Chris Campbell': ""Hi Howard,\nThanks for your suggestion; however, I have discovered a department at the post office not too widely known. I'm keeping my cards to my chest on this one, until publication.\nThe MOD, I reserve for my Anthony Pratt stories."", 'time': '07:04 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Chris,\nIn response to your idea, which sounds intriguing, may I suggest that your former major accepts a post in a curious department in Whitehall; maybe he’s a consultant for an obscure office within the Ministry of Defence. It would seem an appropriate career move to utilise his military knowledge and a suitable job for a Guard’s officer; given the old boy network and all those connections…. Just a thought and not entirely an arbitrary suggestion; but that’s another story :)\nAnyway, I’m sure it’ll work well, judging from the examples o...', 'time': '04:56 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Chris Campbell': ""Hi Howard,\nThanks for your suggestion; however, I have discovered a department at the post office not too widely known. I'm keeping my cards to my chest on this one, until publication.\nThe MOD, I reserve for my Anthony Pratt stories."", 'time': '07:04 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Chris Campbell': ""Hi Howard,\nThanks for your suggestion; however, I have discovered a department at the post office not too widely known. I'm keeping my cards to my chest on this one, until publication.\nThe MOD, I reserve for my Anthony Pratt stories."", 'time': '07:04 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Like Jessie I am glad he only shaved. But that had to be a collosal step.\nNice depiction of long-long term marriage.\n\nThanks for liking my story.', 'time': '14:35 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Mary,\nThank you for reading my story and sharing your thoughts and positive feedback. I’m pleased you enjoyed it and glad it rang true; it was a tricky topic and I’m relieved it didn’t become too melodramatic.\nTake care\nHH', 'time': '00:05 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Mary,\nThank you for reading my story and sharing your thoughts and positive feedback. I’m pleased you enjoyed it and glad it rang true; it was a tricky topic and I’m relieved it didn’t become too melodramatic.\nTake care\nHH', 'time': '00:05 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Jessie Laverton': 'This is really lovely. I was so relieved when he only shaved at the end!', 'time': '14:04 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Jessie,\nThank you for taking the time to read and comment on my story. Your positive response is much appreciated.\nTake care\nHH', 'time': '00:07 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Jessie,\nThank you for taking the time to read and comment on my story. Your positive response is much appreciated.\nTake care\nHH', 'time': '00:07 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Helen A Smith': 'Great story Howard. I got completely drawn into this private world. Very touching without being sentimental. Wonderful depiction of characters and a tale of love and courage. Also, some great lines. “Keeping  sane and maintaining patience became the biggest battle of his career. “\nReally enjoyed reading it.', 'time': '08:51 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Helen,\nThank you for reading my latest story and leaving your positive comments. I’m pleased it all made sense and wasn’t too sentimental. It was an interesting challenge trying to condense a character’s life into less than 2000 words and distill it down to one meaningful moment of change, however I’m much encouraged by your words of support.\nTake care\nHH', 'time': '00:15 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Helen,\nThank you for reading my latest story and leaving your positive comments. I’m pleased it all made sense and wasn’t too sentimental. It was an interesting challenge trying to condense a character’s life into less than 2000 words and distill it down to one meaningful moment of change, however I’m much encouraged by your words of support.\nTake care\nHH', 'time': '00:15 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Hear hear, well done Howard. Great story. LF6', 'time': '19:37 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Lily,\nThank you for the positive feedback…. \nI can’t help thinking it’s far too sentimental and a bit mawkish, perhaps?\nTake care\nHH', 'time': '21:54 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Howard Halsall': 'Hey Lily,\nThank you for the positive feedback…. \nI can’t help thinking it’s far too sentimental and a bit mawkish, perhaps?\nTake care\nHH', 'time': '21:54 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,24v3pq,Christmas in July,Kevin B,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/24v3pq/,/short-story/24v3pq/,Fiction,0,"['Christmas', 'Holiday', 'Bedtime']",20 likes,"
Althea woke up and remembered it was Christmas.
 
She pushed off the blankets that were feeling exceedingly heavier with each passing morning, and placed her feet down on the warm, wooden floors.
 
“Warm floors,” she said to herself, “I’ll never get over warm floors.”
 
When she was a little girl, there were things promised from the future and things that couldn’t even be imagined. Althea was still waiting on the things promised, but the unimaginable had arrived time and again, and each time, she couldn’t believe how much energy people expended on erasing minor inconveniences while the greater problems of the world were left unsolved.
 
A few months earlier, Althea had celebrated her eighty-fourth birthday, but since it was Christmas, a fuss was not made. People on the street wished her well, and the staff at the hotel presented her with a cake when she came downstairs to start her day, but that was all. The holidays were assertive. They did not allow for sharing.
 
She had lived in this hotel since she was sixty-five. After retiring from the robotics company she’d founded in the early 80’s, she was determined to relax for a change. Her life had not included marriage or children, because work filled every moment with chaos and technology. Althea had made herself rich coming up in a world where men held the purse strings. She had been given every award on the planet when she’d decided to retire. Magazines featured her prominently and the question posed again and again was--
 
What will you do now?
 
The answer, she knew, was die. Even though sixty-five wasn’t old, it also wasn’t young. Althea knew that most people in her family lived long lives, but who was to say she wouldn’t be an anomaly? She’d had a health scare when she was thirty and then again when she was forty. Both were handled quickly, and she hadn’t had any issues since aside from the usual wear and tear. She was what her parents would have called “spry.” There wasn’t much exercise going on, but she could still climb a flight of stairs without complaining and if she had to pick something up off the floor, she didn’t require assistance. The bar was lowered a little more with each passing year, but part of her enjoyed that. She liked subverting expectations. It was what had allowed her to move through her industry like an octopus in the deep.
 
Even when she’d made her first big windfall after a successful product launch, she had kept her living conditions simple. A two-story farmhouse out on an albeit sizable plot of land right outside of Cambria, California, a little town that enjoyed antique stores and loaded salads. It wasn’t until the day after her retirement party that she called in a contractor to talk about building something a little more…intriguing.
 
“You did a decent job with these plans,” he said, looking over what Althea had been drawing up for the past year and apparently forgetting that she has over thirty patents, including one for a mechanical kidney, “But I don’t get what this is? Is it some kind of…amusement park?”
 
That inquiry reminded her that she needed to have people signing NDAs moving forward. The building began almost immediately. Long life or not, there wasn’t any point in wasting time. Althea tried to keep the construction team small, but it was a large project, and there was no way around that. A few of her close friends, some of whom were also retired, assisted with the more unusual elements of the undertaking. She managed to deconstruct it so that everybody knew what piece they were working on, but without being able to get a sense of the big picture. Normally, that was not how Althea liked things. When she ran her company, she had always wanted everybody invested in the overall vision, but this was unlike anything she had ever done. It required much more secrecy.
 
It wasn’t that she was concerned people would fear for her sanity. Who cares if people think you’re not in your right mind after a certain age as long as they don’t try putting you away? No, it was her legacy she was thinking about, especially since it would be all she’d be leaving behind. She’d worked hard to earn her place in the history books, and she didn’t want to wind up spoken of like Howard Hughes--the genius who went off the deep end and tarnished all his best accomplishments with some upsetting eccentricities.
 
It took nearly two years to complete the project even when Althea paid extra to have work happening around the clock. The closer it got to completion, the thinner her patience ran. When it was finally finished, only the lead contractor and a few of the tech specialists were there to see it all come to life. One of them whispered in her ear and asked what she was thinking as she stood there on a train platform looking out onto a beautiful town covered in snow.
 
“Merry Christmas,” Althea said, “Merry Christmas.”
 
* * * * * * *
 
It probably had something to do with growing up in California. As a little girl, Althea never got to have that kind of traditional Christmas one sees in storybooks. There was never any snow, and because she grew up poor, there were never many presents either. Her family lived on a farm similar to the one she was living on now, although they worked theirs--and hard. By the time two of her brothers were teenagers, they looked old enough to start their own families. The only enrichment or creativity to speak of was a battered copy of “A Christmas Carol” that some traveling library had given to Althea as it was passing by her house. Her brothers made fun of her for accepting the book since it was the middle of summer, but she was transfixed by the old man on the cover sitting in an armchair, holding a candle, while a ghost hovered above him and snow fell past his window.
 
There was so much in that illustration that Althea had never seen--an armchair, a ghost, but most of all, snow.
 
She used the book to teach herself how to read along with some help from her mother, who would use the farm equipment catalogue and whatever else she could find. She’d read it over and over regardless of the time of year, but the first Christmas Eve after receiving it, she had the honor of reading some of it out loud to her family before bed. Her brothers, who were not known to behave when their sister was the center of attention, sat rapt in front of her, and in that moment, she thought she might become something of an actress.
 
“Very nice, Althea,” said her father when she had finished the first chapter, “Very nice indeed.”
 
Althea was the last to leave the farm, and when she did, she swore her next life would be in New England. She dreamt of finding a little place that put wreaths on its doors every December with carolers and a giant Christmas tree in the town square.
 
What her life would be once she got there was anyone’s guess. Her fantasy of being an actress disappeared over time when she realized that speaking in front of large groups of people would be out of the question. She didn’t have the bravado for it. She thought about being a writer, but the mere suggestion of it nearly caused her parents to disown her. She supposed she would save up some money working as a secretary in Los Angeles until she had enough to travel east. Once she was there, it wouldn’t matter what she did.
 
She’d be home.
 
* * * * * *
 
Her first robot was an accident. In the fifties, robotics was being pioneered far across the pond in Bristol. In California, Althea found herself working for an engineer who drank too much in a rotting studio in Chatsworth. The money was decent, because her boss, Mr. Vershun, came from a family full of oil money, but he was more of a tinkerer than a proper engineer, although he certainly had a grand imagination. He had aspirations to break into a world only science fiction had showcased up until then.
 
“Robotics,” he told Althea the day he hired her, “We’re in the robotics business, you and me.”
 
Some secretaries end up marrying the men they work for, but Althea became more like Vershun’s mother. She’d pick up after him, see that he ate enough, and even threatened him when he pulled an all-nighter. Despite his passion, he had no proclivity for tech, and it turned out, some things are closer to art than they are to science when it comes to being adept at them. There are prodigies in music and prodigies in creating robots. Mr. Wilfred Vershun was no such prodigy.
 
Althea, however, was.
 
After organizing all of her employer’s files, poring over his submissions to journals, and transcribing all his thoughts, somehow the intricacies of his obsession became etched into her consciousness. Once there, she found she could move those details around as she liked, and soon, on nights when Vershun had passed out at his desk, she became the tinkerer. She began to build, and fairly quickly, she realized she might not be heading east after all.
 
It wasn’t that her interest wouldn’t travel with her, but in Los Angeles, she had an entire studio at her disposal with only minor interference from Vershun, who was slowly drinking himself to death no matter how much Althea objected. That studio became the birthplace of what would one day be her company. Had she been a man, it might not have taken decades to come to fruition, but Althea was steadfast. She knew she’d been given some kind of gift, and she would see it through to the end. Once she had, she would use any currency that came from it to purchase the life she wanted in that perfect town with its carolers and Christmas tree.
 
Just as some novels never get written and some paintings are never painted, Althea’s dream of a Christmas town in New England began to move further and further out of her grasp not because of failure, but because of success. Once the company was up and running, it couldn’t be easily moved. Money made was put back into the coffers, and there was never any extra for so much as a long weekend in Vermont, let alone a house there.
 
When she’d made her first million, she decided enough was enough. It was time to live out her dreams. She’d earned it. She’d more than earned it. After some scouting, she found the perfect little town on the border of Massachusetts and New Hampshire. Before jumping into anything, she decided to rent a room at the hotel inn and experience a holiday season there. With her company in its slow season due to the holidays, she could get away for a few weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas provided she was back by the first of the year. If all went well, she’d start creating a bicoastal life for herself as she transitioned into a full-time New Englander.
 
That was the plan anyway.
 
Years of polishing a dream had made it hard to look at once the light hit. When Althea arrived, the town was very pretty and very quaint, but it didn’t live up to the image she had painted in her head. It was not the Dickensian England portrayed in A Christmas Carol (all the better, honestly, when you consider the social conditions of the time). There were wreaths on doors, but not every door. There were carolers, but they only performed once while she was there, and one of them was slightly off-key. The tree in the town square was decorated, but Althea wanted it to be taller. She wanted it to reach up nearly to the sky.
 
She knew she was being unreasonable, but what kind of dream is reasonable? Especially when it’s the only one you have.
 
The robots had become her entire life, but if suddenly they went away, she wouldn’t care. Not as long as she could have that big armchair with the snow falling outside. She’d even allow a few ghosts to haunt her provided she could wake up on Christmas morning, throw open the shutters, and shout down to a boy below about buying her a goose.
 
On the plane ride home, she thought about whether or not she should try visiting England the following year, but she decided that if it turned out to be as disappointing as well, her heart might not be able to take it.
 
No, the only solution was to create exactly what she wanted. Just like she had built the company from scratch, Althea would have to build her own kind of Christmas.
 
It would only take her a few decades.
 
* * * * * * *
 
“Good morning, Althea,” said Gerard at the front desk, “Merry Christmas.”
 
“Merry Christmas, Gerard,” she responded with a smile, “How’s your arm doing?”
 
As if to answer her, a spark jumped out from just above his elbow.
 
“I’ll take a look at that after breakfast,” she said, and made her way out the door.
 
It snowed everyday around 9am. It would continue snowing straight into the evening, but would stop sometime after midnight, long after Althea had gone to sleep.
 
She didn’t always stay at the hotel. Sometimes she’d take the train (which was more of a shuttle) back up to the farmhouse. There, she’d open mail, throw expired items out of her fridge, and act like a normal person for a bit before the boredom nearly made her keel over. Her time in the village (as she called it) began to overtake her time spent in what some would consider the “real world.” In that way, it really was like she’d stepped into a dream. Stepping out soon began to feel foolish. Why spend all that money and time on something and not fully embrace it?
 
Every cog in the operation had been thought out by her. From the solar panels that powered it to the delivery entrance for when large items needed to be restocked, it was all her. It was the closest thing she’d ever have to a child.
 
Of course, it was really more like twenty children.
 
There was the hotel--all five stories of it--the bookstore, several restaurants, the gazebo, and the town square that featured a Christmas tree reaching all the way up to the sky. The sky itself was fiber optic. Althea wanted no part of the outside world to touch this place, not even the stars or the fresh air. By containing it, she felt as though she could control time itself. Even the weather was under her command. Whenever she wanted to liven things up, she’d plan a small blizzard and tuck herself into the armchair in her hotel room to read the first chapter of A Christmas Carol out loud to herself while thinking about a family that had left years ago. The last was her middle brother who died in a car accident the year she turned sixty. Longevity might live in the genes, but tragedy lurks on the road.
 
She used her brother’s likeness when designing the android who worked at the hot chocolate shoppe since he always did like chocolate. Using photos of her family, she could recreate them all over town. Her mother was the mayor, her father owned the bookstore, and even Gerard was based on her great-grandfather.
 
Their programming allowed them to develop their own personalities within reason, but they all followed one strict guideline--
 
They must always know that it was Christmas.
And it was always Christmas.
 
Each morning was Christmas morning and each night was Christmas Eve.
 
Althea kept track of what day it really was in the outside world, but within the compound, as she began to think of it, it was only Christmas.
 
* * * * * *
 
That day, after having breakfast and fixing Gerard’s arm, she walked to the center of town for the daily tree lighting. All around her were people who weren’t people. There were adults, children, and even some who looked to be almost as old as she was, but none of them would ever age or get sick or die.
 
A small child that was modeled after a sister that had passed away from the flu when Althea was five ran up to her and wished her a Merry Christmas.
 
Althea smiled, reached into her pocket, pulled out a candy cane, and handed it to the little girl. They did this everyday, but everyday Althea found it charming. She always made sure to have the candy cane on hand, and if she remembered correctly, the little girl was programmed to leave the tree lighting, go straight to the hotel, and leave it in the jar on the front desk where Althea would retrieve it the following morning.
 
It wasn’t even real.
Very little here was.
And Althea didn’t mind at all.
 
When the countdown to the lighting began, she looked around and saw a beautiful wreath on every door. There were carolers in front of the tree singing “O Come All Ye Faithful” in perfect harmony. The air was not fresh, but it smelled of pine and gingerbread.
 
Outside, she knew it was late July. Either the 20th or the 21st. She would make a trip up to the farmhouse in early August, but that might be her last of the year. She was far too happy here.
 
Besides, with her gone, who would give the little girl her candy cane?
 
Who would fix Gerard’s arm if it began to spark?
 
And who would all those ghosts haunt in the middle of the night while the snow fell, and fell, and fell? 
","August 12, 2023 00:30","[[{'Vid Weeks': 'Great Christmas tale', 'time': '20:23 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you, Vid!', 'time': '02:59 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you, Vid!', 'time': '02:59 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Fascinating work. Good momentum an interesting tale.', 'time': '16:47 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you so much, Bruce.', 'time': '17:01 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you so much, Bruce.', 'time': '17:01 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mason Burnett': 'This honestly sounds like some grand plan that my mother, grandmother, late great-grandmother and sister would come up with. It hits very close to home, and I love it. It has the right amount of emotion. I need to know, how are you this creative? Anyhow, amazing story.', 'time': '15:45 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you, Mason, I think it comes from years of doing theater where you have to constantly be finding new elements to discover within a story.', 'time': '17:03 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you, Mason, I think it comes from years of doing theater where you have to constantly be finding new elements to discover within a story.', 'time': '17:03 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'J. D. Lair': '“she couldn’t believe how much energy people expended on erasing minor inconveniences while the greater problems of the world were left unsolved.” - so much truth here. \n\nGreat story Kevin!', 'time': '03:06 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you so much, J.D.!', 'time': '16:13 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you so much, J.D.!', 'time': '16:13 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Rabab Zaidi': 'Intriguing', 'time': '14:53 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you very much.', 'time': '03:00 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you very much.', 'time': '03:00 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Marty B': '""She knew she was being unreasonable, but what kind of dream is reasonable? Especially when it’s the only one you have.""\n\nAlthea lived in a ream world even when she was just imagining the robots her company would build.\nI thought you did a great job slowly providing the details of her own -fullsize-  Christmas snowglobe.', 'time': '04:03 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you so much.', 'time': '03:01 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you so much.', 'time': '03:01 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': 'Kevin, such a great story. Althea created her own heaven. How lovely. LF6', 'time': '19:44 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you so much!', 'time': '02:05 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Lily Finch': 'Awesome bit of story telling. LF6 D)', 'time': '03:15 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kevin B': 'Thank you so much!', 'time': '02:05 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'Awesome bit of story telling. LF6 D)', 'time': '03:15 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'Awesome bit of story telling. LF6 D)', 'time': '03:15 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Kevin,\nWhat a heart warming story! It’s the perfect July treat. I’ve always lived in Colorado, so I’ve naturally taken cold Christmas days for granted-although, I can’t imagine it any other way. This piece was wonderfully kind and hopeful. I loved that this character had a dream and found a way to mark it work. Oh to be in the cutting edge! What a privilege. You weaves her back story in beautifully and each break in the piece revealed another part of her heart. Nice work!!', 'time': '14:52 Sep 09, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': 'Oh, this is a great piece! It starts so mundane, but gradually the story grows and grows. First we learn Althea\'s got quite a history, then that she\'s been working on secret projects after retirement, and finally: that she\'s built herself a gargantuan snowglobe to live in. ""The sky itself was fiber optic"" this line, for me, really drove home just where Althea was. \n\n""erasing minor inconveniences while the greater problems of the world were left unsolved"" - this whole paragraph is gold. \n\nHer life is greatly influenced by A Christmas Carol, b...', 'time': '20:50 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ken Cartisano': ""This is a weird story.  I love your writing, it's flawless and verges on spellbinding at times. But this story is missing something. I'm not sure what. It nails the prompt squarely on the head, which in itself is an achievement, but stops there. \n\nWhen you used the term deconstruct, I think you meant 'compartmentalized'.\n\nI think I know what it is. The character's lack of humanity, her obsession with precision. Plus, her neurosis would, in fact, tarnish her legacy. \n\nI just sxxxxd a fat one and ate a pile of chocolate ice cream and here is w..."", 'time': '08:04 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Kevin B': ""Hi Ken, I think of compartmentalizing in terms of something you do in your personal life, whereas here I think she really is deconstructing the project so that it's just an assembly of pieces.\n\nI don't see her as having no personality at all. I think people who live mostly isolated lives spend a lot of time looking at other people and trying to figure out what makes them tick. There's definitely an energy that's different when you're adept at socializing as opposed to when you're not. I think she creates this world, because she needs a certa..."", 'time': '19:00 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Kevin B': ""Hi Ken, I think of compartmentalizing in terms of something you do in your personal life, whereas here I think she really is deconstructing the project so that it's just an assembly of pieces.\n\nI don't see her as having no personality at all. I think people who live mostly isolated lives spend a lot of time looking at other people and trying to figure out what makes them tick. There's definitely an energy that's different when you're adept at socializing as opposed to when you're not. I think she creates this world, because she needs a certa..."", 'time': '19:00 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""It's a wonderful world!"", 'time': '01:59 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,57uwjd,Cafe Veritas,Marty B,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/57uwjd/,/short-story/57uwjd/,Fiction,0,"['Mystery', 'Contemporary']",19 likes,"
Grandma Bobbie’s unassuming old, wrinkled hands squeezed Amelia’s hand once, then twice to bring her back to reality. Amelia’s attention turned back to the small woman across from her at the Café table. “Thanks for coming to see me at work, Grandma.” One of Amelia’s legs bobbed rapidly over her crossed legs.   An attractive old lady, short and thin, with pink cheeks and light brown eyes, Grandma Bobbie had an easy smile and a gentle manner. “Oh I love to see you Amelia, no matter where it is! And I haven't had a chance to say happy birthday, you’re 17 now! But you said you needed to see me about a problem?” Sitting down in a pale white sweater, over a patterned brown skirt, she looked like a vanilla frosted chocolate cupcake. Grandma Bobbie smiled softly. “And you seem distracted-”“I hope you like the tea, their coffee is rather terrible.” Amelia said, changing the subject. “And I got you a scone.”“Isn’t this shop famous for its coffee?” Grandma Bobbie grabbed the blue paper cup, blowing on the hot tea, and looked at the scone. Beautiful on the white china plate, the triangular shape had berries bursting out of each side, and elegantly drizzled icing. “It looks delightful!” Grandma Bobbie carefully leaned over the table and took a bite. Immediately her mouth puckered, and her eyes squinted closed.   “It is a bit dry-,” Grandma Bobbie coughed, then reached for her tea to take a sip. Amelia sighed. “All the pastries here look good, but are dry and hard.”“Is that your problem,” Grandma Bobbie asked, “the scones are no good?” She pushed the disappointing scone far across the brightly colored table. The coffee shop vibrated with light, spotlights shining on the large classically styled statues, on each brightly colored art deco table and chair set, and on the colorful tiles inset in elaborate patterns on the floor. Two teenage girls giggled loudly while posing for a selfie in front of the huge mural of graffiti letters exclaiming in three foot font, ‘Café Veritas’. One fell, and stayed down laughing hysterically.“Are they OK?” Grandma nodded to the two women in front of the glaring mural. Amelia looked over, her lips pursed. “We have been getting more and more customers who act strange, obsessed with the colors of the walls, and the mural. They might be on drugs.” Amelia whispered.  “But, Grandma, that is the whole point of the Café. People come here to take photos of the statues, the mural, even the bathroom; the women’s room has a fountain shipped over from Italy! It is all for looks, for photos to post on social media.” Amelia waved her hand around. “Last year the owner, Sarah, paid some ‘Influencers’ to promote the Café, and now it is a destination to come in to take pictures. Even for people who are on more than just caffeine” Amelia shook her head. “I mean some people must like the coffee. Sarah sells a lot of coffee in large wholesale bags. But that is not why I need to talk to you.” Amelia leaned in close, her voice a hushed whisper. “Sarah thinks I’m stealing!” “Stealing money from the register?” Grandma Bobbie’s eyes were wide. “That is preposterous!”  “No, not money. No one pays with money anymore. People use their phones, or credit cards.”Amelia rubbed her hands together, over and over.  “Someone is stealing credit card numbers, and then using them to buy new computers, and phones, and… I don’t even understand how it could happen.” Amelia’s hands stopped for a moment as she wiped her shirt sleeve across her damp eyes, and then began rubbing themselves again. “But they think I’m at fault because all the card numbers were stolen during my shifts! Oh Grandma!” Amelia’s face glowed red with tears. Grandma Bobbie opened her purse and pulled out a pack of tissue paper. “I am sorry dear, this sounds terrible.” Grandma Bobbie patted Amelia’s hand.“Why do you think I could help?” Grandma Bobbie asked, her small blue purse clasped in both hands on her lap. “I use a checkbook myself, although Father O’Shea spoke about the dangers of credit cards just this week at mass-” “Grandma, you’re good with puzzles, and this is one.” Amelia pleaded with wide eyes. “I do love puzzles,” Grandma Bobbie began, “I just finished a 1000 piece puzzle this week, with three Persian cats, they all looked just like my Rosie. But all the same color! Those puzzle makers are just devilish. But how does that help you?” “You know what I mean Grandma.” Amelia looked directly into her light brown eyes. “You were able to find the Mayor’s wife’s missing jewelry-” “Ex-Mayor, now. Those necklaces were only moved to claim the insurance, and they did not even leave his house. It was a false bottom, see-” Grandma Bobbie noted, a finger raised. “And solved the bank robbery-” “Well, that was just luck.” Grandma Bobbie smiled, and leaned back. “The Bank Manager had brought his umbrella when it wasn’t supposed to rain, and so-” “Grandma, you can see things others don’t.” Amelia leaned even closer. “Please, for me, just see if anything stands out.” Grandma Bobbie pursed her lips. “Could anyone else be involved?”“Well, Sarah, and two other baristas also work here. But they weren’t here all the times the card numbers were stolen.”  Grandma Bobbie nodded. “Are those baristas here now?”  “John’s over there.” Amelia gestured to a broad shouldered, lanky boy with downcast eyes. He moved a broom across the floor, careful to get every speck of dust. “And Bonnie.” Annie nodded to the woman behind the counter, a pale teenager, in an oversized t-shirt and bright blue hair. “Bonnie’s one of my best friends, it just can’t be her! She’d never do anything like this, but then I can’t see John stealing, he gives us a tip for his free coffee.” Amelia threw her hands up and then dropped them back in her lap. “I thought it could be a computer thing, but Sarah said the thief is getting the numbers directly from the Cafe. It could be that…” Amelia’s attention suddenly moved past her Grandma to focus on the door of the Café. Her eyes went soft, and her mouth gently opened. Grandma Bobbie turned to see a handsome young man standing just inside the door. Long bangs obscured his eyes, emphasizing his square jaw. Short and compact, he had on a dress shirt with rolled- up sleeves exposing his muscular forearms. His jeans were torn, with several small holes, but his trainers shone bright in the light of the Café. “Sprezzatura,” Grandma Bobbie muttered. “He bought those holes in his jeans, he did not earn them.” She was turning back around when he smiled, and began walking toward her. Even though the boy was more than 65 years younger, as he moved toward her a smile grew on her face, until she saw his eyes locked with Amelia. She turned to the table and tapped her lips with her napkin. “Danny!” Amelia leapt up, her tears gone and replaced by a wide grin.“Grandma- this is my boyfriend, Danny. Danny, this is Grandma Bobbie, who I told you about.” “Hello ma’am,” Danny’s thousand watt smile somehow brightened the over-lit Café. “Danny comes to visit every day I work!” Amelia held Danny’s arm tight. “Let me get you a coffee!” Amelia squeezed his hand and let go, walking behind the counter and waving Bonnie away to enter the order herself.  As Danny waited, he leaned over, his hands constantly moving, straightening the displays, touching everything. Grandma Bobbie could not hear him, but as Amelia turned bright red with a huge smile, his words were having the desired effect.  Danny leaned in even closer, and both teenagers broke into laughter.        The woman police officer walked into the Café and straight to the laughing couple at the counter. An older woman with thick hair pulled back tight into a low ponytail, the police officer’s dark eyes glowed with cold discernment. Amelia’s mouth dropped open at the sight of the uniform, and shining badge. “This can’t be real, I didn’t steal anything.” Amelia moved away from the counter, her damp hands twisting her uniform apron, until she backed into the huge coffee urns behind her. Danny stepped away, his face serious, his eyes focused on the police officer. “I just have a few questions, no one is under arrest.” The police officer said.“I’m here to follow up on some reports of credit card theft. I need to speak with, Amelia, Bonnie and a, John. Your name?” “I am Amelia” She straightened her wrinkled apron. “OK, do you have a few minutes?” The officer asked, her hand gesturing to an open Café table. “We can make this quick. I have bigger crimes to worry about, but I need to follow up and make a report.” “I’ll see you later, and good luck.” Danny said, and left the Café. The police officer and Amelia sat down at the table behind Grandma Bobbie. She pulled out her knitting needled and began worked on a half finished large brown and yellow scarf. She couldn’t see the interviews take place, but could hear some of the conversation.  “What bigger crimes? Amelia asked. “There is a flood of illicit pills flooding our small town. MDMA, fentanyl, it’s a disaster. But don’t try to change the subject. I need to know your situation. Do you know anything about these credit card number thefts?”“No.” Amelia said, biting her lip to stop it quivering. “What do you know about the owner, Sarah? The officer asked. “Sarah is a great boss!” Amelia said. “And the pay is really good, for a Café. Sarah always handles closing too, which is nice. Who do I think it could be? I can’t believe anyone would do such a thing. John watches me all the time though…”Several customers came in, there voices echoing through the Café, and Grandma Bobbie only heard a few phrases from each of the baristas.“…This is the third coffee shop I have worked at. This Café gets the craziest customers, just coming in for the pictures. ” Bonnie said. “It’s funny, I've seen Danny at each one. He must really like coffee. Or cute, female baristas…” “…I don't know who drinks all the Café Veritas coffee.” John had a deep baritone voice. “I think it’s terrible. I haven’t seen it at a restaurant, or a store, but we move a lot of coffee through the back room…”               After the interviews, Grandma Bobbie sat at her Café table, with Amelia. The police officer stood in front of the mural speaking with Sarah in hushed tones. “The police didn't solve anything, they probably still think I’m responsible.” Amelia put her head down on the table. “What am I going to do?”“But, you are responsible dear.” Grandma Bobbie tilted her head at an angle.“What, I didn't steal anything!” Amelia’s mouth hung open.  Grandma Bobbie shook her head, “No, you didn't steal anything, and I would say your only crime is blindness, blindness to the dark side of human nature. But you are young, and that is to be expected.” Grandma Bobbie leaned over to Amelia. “Call the rest of them over, and I will explain.” Sarah, Bonnie, John and the police officer pulled up chairs around Grandma Bobbie. “You see this is just what happened to my friend's niece, Anne-Marie and her boyfriend, William in Alameda.” Grandma Bobbie's eyes shone bright, unusually so considering her age.“It is such a small town, Alameda, especially out on Bay Farm Island. So we all knew of course.” “Knew what?” Amelia said. “William was very handsome, with nice hair, and broad shoulders, such shoulders…”Grandma Bobbie stopped to look off into the distance. Amelia huffed. “Grandma?” “William said he was in real estate,’ Grandma Bobbie continued, “but really he didn’t work at all. He took care of Anne-Marie and that was enough for her, she liked the attention. Except he was using Anne Marie’s home as a crime den to rob all her surrounding neighbors.""“What does that have to do with the credit card thefts?” Sarah asked“Someone is stealing the account information, but we do not know how.”Grandma Bobbie continued. “Amelia was the one who has been here at each occurrence. But,” Grandma Bobbie held up a wrinkled finger, “she is not the only one who has been here each one of those days. And there are other interesting things happening here at Café Veritas. Now Sarah-” “What, I wasn’t here those shifts, and who are you to accuse me?” Sarah’s face turned red. “I know dear. But do you want to tell the officer about the real business of Café Veritas?” Sarah leaned back and folded her arms. “Let us take stock. This is a Café, but with bad coffee.” Grandma Bobbie said, looking around to the group. “The pastries look nice, but taste like cardboard. People come in to take pictures, but then leave. How do you stay in business?”“People do like our coffee- we sell it wholesale-” Sarah’s eyes narrowed at the small old woman.“-Do you sell coffee in bulk… or pills?” The officer sat up straighter, her eyes moving back and forth between the two women. “Coffee masks the smell of the drugs you are shipping in from out of the country. Officer, I am sure you will find the bags of coffee in the back contain more than just coffee.”  “Now, regarding these stolen card numbers. Amelia, your friend Danny visits you every day. Such a good boyfriend, and handsome, although rather full of himself. But Bonnie, at another coffee shop, used to see him regularly visiting a girl there.” Grandma Bobbie said. Amelia stared daggers at Bonnie, who shifted and crossed her arms twisting away on her chair.  “Danny, as he was here each day, had access to the credit card reader on the counter. Father O’Shea told us about these devices, and what to look for, and if I’m not mistaken, Danny is adding a credit card skimmer on the credit card reader in the morning, and then takes it when he leaves so it won’t be noticed. Danny left in a hurry today, so it might still be there. John, could you please take a look?” John stood up to walk over to the counter.“Father O’Shea said you can buy one off the dark web easy enough. I believe Danny was doing this at a couple Cafes. He had lady friends who would get him access without knowing it, and- “ “Grandma!” Amelia called out, her voice sharp. “You just don’t like Danny!” “I don’t know what I am looking for.” John said, looking at the credit card reader. “Maybe this-” John pulled on a protruding section of the reader, and then held up a thin, black device. “Amelia’s Grandmother is right! This is how the card numbers were stolen. You are pretty smart.” John’s whole face brightened as he smiled at the old woman. The officer took Sarah into custody after finding pills in the bags of coffee, and asked Amelia to text Danny to come into the store.   Amelia and Grandma Bobbie were left alone at the table. “I’m sorry about Danny, Amelia.” Grandma Bobbie offered a tissue. “It makes one think about what is real. Is it just the appearance, what is framed in a picture? I have a photograph on my desk of my father and mother, she is wearing a beautiful dress, both with huge smiles. Is that the reality, or the next day when my father went off to war in Europe and never came back? My mother lived through the war, rationing to keep my brother and I safe, and fed in hard times. No picture can show that. I believe reality is what is inside you.” Grandma Bobbie’s hand reached out to squeeze Amelia’s.“Are you satisfied with the choices you are making? For me the best part of my life are the times where I can help someone else have a little bit better day. That is happiness to me. What is happiness to you?” Grandma Bobbie gave Amelia a soft smile. “Reality, although it seems easy to understand, is relative. You make it. So choose your own reality. And by the way, you should talk to that boy John, he has great shoulders, just like your grandfather.” Grandma Bobbie’s eyes twinkled as she smiled. 
","August 18, 2023 02:51","[[{'Michał Przywara': 'There\'s an excellent line in this story: ""He bought those holes in his jeans, he did not earn them."" I think it does give Danny away though, instant suspect :)\n\nThat\'s okay though. This isn\'t just a mystery story, it\'s also a family story, with the grandmother guiding the granddaughter through an interesting, and confusing, phase of life.\n\nThere\'s also a lesson about greed here. If you\'re running a drug smuggling operation, don\'t go running to the police if someone steals your loose change. I suppose the owner might have been trying to prote...', 'time': '01:29 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Marty B': ""Ah you have a good eye for suspicious characters- you could be a detective yourself!\nYes this is a story about A Grandma trying to pass down some life lessons about what is 'real',  what are the important priorities, and - greed is definitely one to avoid! \n\nthanks!"", 'time': '04:37 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Marty B': ""Ah you have a good eye for suspicious characters- you could be a detective yourself!\nYes this is a story about A Grandma trying to pass down some life lessons about what is 'real',  what are the important priorities, and - greed is definitely one to avoid! \n\nthanks!"", 'time': '04:37 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Marty!\nA wonderful take on the prompt. Although, I confess to having suspicions about that Danny from the first moment he is mentioned. I loved that this story was also about a grand parent relationship. I also appreciated that she was prepared to jump into the modern mystery without missing a beat. Nice work!!', 'time': '01:01 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Marty B': ""You have a good eye for suspects-  Never trust the good looking boy!  This Grandma has solved her share of 'puzzles' \n\nThanks!"", 'time': '06:15 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Marty B': ""You have a good eye for suspects-  Never trust the good looking boy!  This Grandma has solved her share of 'puzzles' \n\nThanks!"", 'time': '06:15 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Yep another great tale Marty. I loved the homage to Miss Marple mystery stories, even including a Father Dowling type. The subject matter was fitting and very appropriate to these kind of tales. Nailed it!', 'time': '22:49 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Marty B': ""This story is a pale shadow to Dame Agatha Christie, but I appreciate the good words- \nShe invented the genre of the 'cozy mystery'!!\n\nThanks!"", 'time': '06:18 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Marty B': ""This story is a pale shadow to Dame Agatha Christie, but I appreciate the good words- \nShe invented the genre of the 'cozy mystery'!!\n\nThanks!"", 'time': '06:18 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""This was a fun little mystery tale, Marty. And I'm always up for a mystery. It was set up well, and the culprits were a surprise, though we had clues along the way. Nicely done, my friend. We need more tales like this, Marty.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '10:10 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Marty B': ""I love mysteries too, little puzzles to figure out the 'who dunnit'.\nThanks!"", 'time': '16:58 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Marty B': ""I love mysteries too, little puzzles to figure out the 'who dunnit'.\nThanks!"", 'time': '16:58 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Lily Finch': ""Marty B., delivering another top-notch story. Well done. \nI wouldn't want to do something wrong around Grandma Bobbie because I would get found out for sure. Not that I would do something like that. Good stuff. LF6\nOne phrase you may need to fix\nand then takes it when he leaves so it won’t not be noticed."", 'time': '06:07 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Marty B': 'I have found those Grandmas know a lot more than they let on! \n\nThank you!', 'time': '16:59 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Lily Finch': 'Yes, me too!😜 You are welcome. LF6', 'time': '17:02 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Marty B': 'I have found those Grandmas know a lot more than they let on! \n\nThank you!', 'time': '16:59 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'Yes, me too!😜 You are welcome. LF6', 'time': '17:02 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'Yes, me too!😜 You are welcome. LF6', 'time': '17:02 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,fjjbbz,Tortoise Approved,Olivia Lake,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/fjjbbz/,/short-story/fjjbbz/,Fiction,0,"['Friendship', 'Funny']",18 likes,"
I always imagined that, by the time I was thirty-five, I’d be married with kids and living in the suburbs. I could see it so clearly: on a cloudless summer day, my husband would be working on his honey-do list with a tool belt strapped snugly around his waist. I’d be wearing a floppy sun hat while planting flowers in my garden, and the kids would be running around in the backyard, laughing as they kicked a soccer ball. It was a dream that was so vivid, I could feel the sun on my back, smell the freshly cut grass, hear the thump of the soccer ball. It was so tangible that it felt inevitable - a matter of when rather than if.
 
My timeline had one thing right - by the time I was thirty-five, I did buy a house in the suburbs. But heavy is the ringless hand that signs the mortgage, because unlike my grand vision, I was alone. There was no handy husband and there were no giggling children. Instead, there was a tortoise named Russell.
 
Russell wasn’t my tortoise - he belonged to a middle aged woman down the street. I never even exchanged two words with her, but by neighborhood osmosis, I knew about Russell. Everyone in the area did - his name, his impressive age of eighty-four, and how his owner let him outside when the weather was nice. No one’s backyard was fenced, and they created an unbroken carpet of emerald grass. Russell would wander down the stretch of lawns, sunlight gleaming off of his pine green and marigold shell, until he reached my house. Maybe he liked the sunflowers on my hat, or maybe he wanted to snack on the petunias that I planted - whatever the reason, I could count on Russell stopping by when I was outside.
 
One afternoon, I was telling him about what happened at brunch.
 
“Zoey is engaged,” I announced gloomily, plunging my weeding knife into the lawn. “She barely started dating this guy when Marcus and I broke up, and now they’re engaged.” I sighed and blew a strand of hair out of my face. “I mean, I’m happy for her - I am - but it all feels so…unfair.”
 
Russell stood there and blinked.
 
“Is this how it happens now? People date for like, a year before getting engaged?” I shuddered at the thought. “I guess you know what you’re looking for by this age, but…Marcus and I were together for six years. Six years! I just can’t imagine getting engaged to someone that I don’t know as well as I knew him.”
 
Russell yawned.
 
“Hey, don’t give me that. I have moved on.”
 
Russell didn’t move.
 
“Tina kept asking me if I’ve been on any dates, and she is getting so annoying.” I yanked out a dandelion, roots and all. “She can never read the room.”
 
Russell blinked.
 
“I’ve been busy, you know? First it was moving in, but then I had to paint the rooms and get new carpet and shop for furniture - the house takes up a lot of time. I’m turning it into a home.”
 
Russell didn’t move.
 
“It’s been getting kind of lonely, though. Every night, I end up laying on the couch watching Law and Order and scrolling through my phone. And Tina made this joke during brunch about her eggs dying - but she’s younger than me! Was that supposed to be aimed at me?” I bit my lip. “Are my eggs dying?”
 
Russell yawned.
 
“You’re right.” I shook my head. “That’s dramatic.”
 
Russell blinked.
 
“It feels like I’ve just gotten a handle on my life, and time is already running out. If I don’t scramble, then I’m going to be alone…but dating is terrible, and everything has changed so much since the last time I was out there.”
 
I glanced down at the pile of weeds and had an idea. I picked up two dandelions, one in each hand, and held them out to Russell. “Help me decide - do I get on the dating apps? Left dandelion means yes, right dandelion means no.”
 
Russell took a jerky step forward, stretched out his neck, and chomped down on the left dandelion.
 
“Alright, buddy. I hope you realize how serious this decision is.”
 
Russell didn’t react.
 
The next time Russell came over, I was pruning my hydrangeas and was ready to give him an earful.
 
“Buddy, I hope you realize how much trouble you’re in.” I shook my finger at him. “I downloaded the app, and it’s terrible. It’s so hard to find someone who isn’t drifting aimlessly through life. All the guys with goals and careers, have they already been snapped up?”
 
Russell didn’t move.
 
“Oh, there are guys that look fine until you read between the lines. You can’t be thirty-five and ‘apolitical’ - you either don’t care about anything, or you think your real beliefs will scare women away. Neither of those are attractive.”
 
Russell blinked.
 
“And if you actually manage to match with someone, talking to them is like pulling teeth. I’m trying to get to know them. I’m asking questions about their hobbies and their careers and their pets, and I get one word answers in return. I mean, seriously?” I yanked off my gardening gloves. “I’m not asking for a Shakespearean sonnet here. All I'm asking for is a little effort.”
 
Russell whistled.
 
“Aw, do you have a little cold?” I reached out to stroke his head. “Poor buddy. I guess I shouldn’t be so hard on you.”
 
Russell blinked. I leaned over, plucked two dandelions that had sprouted in the grass, and offered them to him. “If you think I should stick it out on the apps, let me know. Left dandelion means yes, right dandelion means no.”
 
Russell opened his maw and munched on the left dandelion.
 
“Okay, message received loud and clear.” I sighed and tossed the remaining dandelion aside. “Well, you’ve been very patient, listening to me talk about my dating life. How about you? I’m sure you’ve romanced a few lady tortoises in your day.”
 
Russell kept chewing, and I remembered that I was talking to a tortoise.
 
“Maybe…I should start texting Zoey more often.”
 
Russell didn’t move.
 
A few days later, I was spreading compost over my garden bed and had much better news for Russell.
 
“You won’t believe it!” I sang as he marched up to me. “I matched with someone, and we’re going out for dinner.”
 
Russell blinked.
 
“His name is Nate. He’s an architect, he loves dogs, and he’s pretty cute,” I grinned.
 
Russell hissed.
 
“Hey,” I said, raising my eyebrows. “What gives? You don’t know this guy.”
 
Russell didn’t move.
 
“I mean, sure, liking dogs is kind of basic - but I’d be a little suspicious if someone didn’t like dogs.”
 
Russell blinked. 
 
“Okay, Nate also likes to hike and he likes photography. Those aren’t super original hobbies, but I think it’s good that he likes being outdoors and has a creative side.” I frowned at Russell. “What’s so terrible about that?”
 
Russell gurgled.
 
“Are you still getting over your cold?” I stroked his shell. “Poor buddy. Maybe you’re not in the mood to deal with my dating life today.”
 
Russell didn’t move. I looked around my backyard until I found two dandelions. “Okay, I won’t bother you about Nate anymore. Just give me your opinion. Left dandelion means yes, go on a date with him. Right dandelion means no, don’t -”
 
Before I could finish my sentence, Russell had devoured the right dandelion.
 
“Ah,” I said softly, looking down at the leftover stem. “I mean, I reserve the right to make my own decisions.”
 
I smiled weakly at him, but he didn’t react. I extended the remaining flower. “Left dandelion means sure, it’s not too early to have a glass of wine?”
 
Russell didn’t move.
 
“Wow, tough crowd tonight,” I muttered.
 
The next time I saw Russell, it was almost a week later. I was sitting on my patio with a glass of wine, watching the sun set.
 
“You were right,” I sighed as he sidled up to me. “I don’t know how you knew, but Nate wasn’t all he was cracked up to be.” I took a sip. “He has a girlfriend - no, wait, that’s not the worst part. She knew about me!”
 
Russell blinked.
 
“Do tortoises care about polyamory? Maybe it’s different for you. I’ll make it clear - I do care.” I swirled the wine around in my glass. “It’s not that I care if he’s polyamorous. Just don’t bring me into it.”
 
Russell chirped.
 
“Exactly!” I cried. “I want all the information upfront. Don’t try to trick me into a date.” I sighed. “He was a total waste of time.”
 
Russell gurgled.
 
“Aw, it’s okay, buddy.” I rubbed the top of his head with my finger. “You sound better. I think that cold of yours is passing, huh?”
 
Russell didn’t move.
 
“I’m glad you’re feeling better. Hey, maybe you were allergic to my bullshit!”
 
I doubled over laughing. Russell didn’t react.
 
“Oh, admit it - I’m hilarious,” I snorted, wiping my eyes.
 
Russell didn’t get a chance to react - or wasn’t reacting at all - when a voice echoed down the lawns. “Russell!”
 
I jumped, spilling a little wine on my patio, and stood up. “Over here!” I called, waving my free hand in the air.
 
It took a moment for me to spot whoever was looking for Russell. A man, not much older than me, was jogging down the connected backyards. When he saw Russell, he let out a sigh of relief.
 
“Oh, thank goodness,” he panted. “I’ve been looking for him everywhere. I’m so sorry he’s been bothering you.”
 
“Not at all. He’s joining me for a drink.” I realized how that sounded and quickly added, “Um, he’s not having any.”
 
The man chuckled. “It looks like you two are having a good time.”
 
“He comes over often, and he’s always welcome.” I reached over and patted Russell’s shell. “How long have you had him?”
 
He shook his head. “Oh, no, Russell isn’t mine. He’s my sister’s - I’m just taking care of him for a few days.”
 
“Oh?”
 
“Yeah. She said to let him out if it was nice, but I didn’t think he’d wander away.” He laughed, and the sound of it gave me butterflies. “He’s had a little bit of a cold, and she wanted someone to keep a close eye on him while she’s out of town.”
 
“I noticed he’s been a little sick, but he sounds much better now.”
 
He grinned. “Well, I’m glad you’ve been looking out for him.” 
 
I smiled back and tried to surreptitiously look at his hand. From what I could tell, he wasn’t wearing a ring. I didn’t have the time or dandelions to ask Russell, but I figured this guy came tortoise-approved.
 
“It is a nice evening. Care to join me for a glass of wine?”
 
Russell chirped.
","August 19, 2023 01:50","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Olivia,\nOh my goodness, this was such an excellent piece! I loved these characters, and I loved Russel! When I was a child, my neighbor had a giant tortoise. She was a veterinarian who rescued him and my sister and I loved feeding him a little treats. I’m sure he only got fatter on account of us. This was such a clever love story, and so full of hope. it was a well-deserved shortlist. Congratulations!', 'time': '15:26 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Kevin B': ""I'm the proud dad of four tortoises and this story was so fantastic. I love the dialogue, and you have such a knack for cleverness that feels fresh and whimsical at the same time."", 'time': '16:23 Aug 31, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Bob Long Jr': 'Olivia .. what a fun read! Russell stole thecshow even though he said nothing. Congratulations .. the dialog was so entertaining !', 'time': '19:09 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Congrats.', 'time': '11:23 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Congrats to you and Russell on shortlist🥳🥳', 'time': '19:09 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Wise old tortoise.\n\nThanks for liking and commenting on my donuts.', 'time': '03:32 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Very cute. And relatable! Dating is a nightmare!! Happy to stick with law and order and my phone scrolling for now lol and writing crazy stories of course 😂', 'time': '18:44 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,mu8pb7,Forgive Me,Chris Belton,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/mu8pb7/,/short-story/mu8pb7/,Fiction,0,['Fiction'],17 likes,"
Forgive Me.
 
	“I’m sorry, pet… but we need to get a move on.”
Imelda attempted a smile, flinching through clenched teeth, trying not to resist Shirley’s determined effort to wield the rough towel at speed over her fragile skin.
	“There we are, pet. Now let’s get you dressed and into your chair before they send a search party.”
	Imelda loved the sound of Shirley’s home cooked voice. It reminded her of her grandmother’s kitchen; the aroma of cinnamon laced apple cake straight from the oven in a world not yet defiled. 
	Ablutions over, Imelda watched Shirley position the wheelchair next to her bed, before wheeling the hoist across to join them. Merriweather Court prided itself on its spacious accommodation, and the menacing contraption standing guard in the corner, overseeing her daily routine, did little to impact the generous proportions of the room.
	Imelda braced herself as Shirley hooked the device beneath her armpits, wincing as it lifted her across. Suspended betwixt bed and chair, she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror attached to the opposite wall. Without warning, decades slipped away, and she morphed into her younger self. Frieda’s heart beat fast and loud against her own as they clung together. Her father’s voice, a hollow echo from the shadows, desperate… warning her… begging her to be still. Soon those precious tiny fingers pinching her flesh would wrench free, forcing them to part.
	                                                  #
	“Almost done, pet. How about a touch of makeup? After all, today of all days, you want to look your best.”
Imelda returned from the brink, settling into her mobile carriage, a light dusting of face powder landing on her troubled expression. Shirley combed through her thinning hair before applying a dab of lavender water behind each ear. A final check to secure her slippered feet on the footrest and smooth her skirt over her knees completed the routine.
	“Mission accomplished. Ready to face the paparazzi.”
Shirley chuckled, releasing the brake, and wheeled her into the corridor.
	Imelda fidgeted, wringing her hands. What was she thinking? She couldn’t go through with it; she’d have to tell them she was ill. 
	“Take me back… I, I’m not well… Shirley, I need to go….”
But Shirley was too busy chatting with another member of the staff to notice Imelda’s distress. They reached the resident’s lounge where she parked Imelda in her preferred spot next to the window and locked the wheels.
	“Please, I want to…”
It was hopeless. Shirley’s attention was already elsewhere.
	Imelda looked out at the purple and yellow crocuses spared from the first cut of the mower; a random splash of colour in the longer grass encircling the budding cherry tree and felt the trickle of a solitary tear on her cheek. Inside the lounge, the usual suspects lining the walls provided a familiar background noise of snores and grumbles, littered with one or two expletives, courtesy of Gladys, who struggled with Tourette’s. The permanent heating intensified the suffocating odours of cooking, incontinence, and disinfectant.
	Mrs Baker’s request for volunteers to be interviewed by the local newspaper had received a disappointing response. 
	“They just want to hear about your experience of living here. Maybe a brief history of your life; your likes, dislikes, regrets, that sort of thing.”
When no-one raised their hand, Imelda had felt sorry for the manager and reacted on impulse. 
	Gazing through the closed windows, she yearned to breathe in the sweet smell of cut grass, to escape her useless, feeble frame, and be free of it all at last. Instead, she focussed on the task ahead, rehearsing what she had prepared in her head. 
            Brief histories, she thought. Brevity would be a challenging proposition in a home for the elderly. As for regrets? No good would come from indulging in possibilities stillborn. Apart from this interview, she had no regrets she wanted to share. Her likes and dislikes? She loved a Spring morning filled with birdsong… and dislikes? Uncomfortable underclothes, mirrors, and that poor excuse for a fish pie they served up every Friday… oh yes… and let’s not forget technology, that worldwide windup!
	“All set, pet? The reporter’s on his way. They’re going to use Mrs Baker’s office.”
Shirley pushed her through the double doors into the corridor. 
 
	Only three residents had volunteered, including Imelda. The other interviewees were Daisy Cooper and Jimmy ‘knockout’ Johnson; named thus for the number of times he landed on the floor of the boxing ring during his short, unremarkable career, and not for his good looks; Jimmy’s face was a testament to his inability to duck.
	The wheels undulated across the carpeted floor, and, without warning, Imelda drifted off. It was a dangerous habit, allowing the darkness lurking on the periphery of her unconscious, the opportunity to slip past unnoticed, giving shape to shadows. 
	“Come on in, Immy.” Daisy’s voice jolted her awake.
Not one to miss an opportunity to occupy centre stage, Daisy wore a too short, bright yellow dress, dotted with garish purple flowers accompanied by a somewhat vulgar glittery hair-slide that peaked out from beneath her abundant silver-grey curls. Shirley summoned another carer to help transfer Imelda into one of the high-back chairs. Daisy reached across, patting her hand. A waft of cheap perfume overpowering the delicate aroma of Imelda’s organic lavender water.
	“Don’t be nervous, Immy. If the worst happens, just leave everything to me.”
Imelda’s condescending look at the abbreviation of her name failed to connect with the excited Daisy. It occurred to Imelda that Daisy’s ‘worst’ would almost certainly be a last-minute cancellation, which Imelda would consider a miracle.
	Jimmy was the last to arrive. A man of slight stature; flyweight division, who considered himself a ‘dapper dresser’. True to form, he wore a light beige suit; crease-free despite its age. The breast pocket revealed a folded red handkerchief matching a wide, polka-dot tie. His sparse hair, arranged into a precarious comb-over, appeared stuck to his scalp.
	“Wonderful morning, ladies, looking lovely as always.”
Jimmy enjoyed a latent popularity at Merriweather Court, where males were in short supply.
	Imelda nodded a smile as he claimed the remaining chair, crossing his legs to reveal red polka-dot socks.
	Mrs Baker entered the room, accompanied by the reporter and a much younger woman, graffitied and pierced; her short coal black hair razor cut to severe perfection. 
	“Good morning, everyone. I’m Simon Cox from ‘News and Views’ and this is my colleague, Jane Beavis, who will take photographs to accompany the article.”
	Imelda studied Simon Cox… in his late fifties, or maybe younger. Disillusioned, he had long since abandoned earlier ambitions of landing a top job with one of the Nationals, and resigned himself to wait out his retirement, enduring mediocre assignments for the local rag. Assuming she was right, he did a reasonable job of disguising his lack of enthusiasm.
	“So, if you wouldn’t mind, Jane will take some pictures of you all and then concentrate on the rest of the place while we get on with our interview.”
Since no one objected, Jane proceeded to snap the threesome from a variety of positions around the room, while Daisy, somewhat put out by the speed of it all, tried to manoeuvre her ample body into her most flattering pose in time for each click of the camera. Satisfied with her efforts, Jane disappeared into reception. Simon turned towards them.
	“Ok, so who wants to kick off?”
There followed a brief pause before Jimmy and Daisy, unable to maintain their polite façade, spoke at once, affording Imelda a temporary reprieve.
	During the following hour and a half, Imelda listened to reminiscent tales of Jimmy’s boxing career and Daisy’s brief stint in show biz, praying there wouldn’t be time for Simon to ask her any in-depth questions. 
	Throughout, Daisy fully embraced the opportunity to enter full ‘luvvie’ mode. 
	“I was always his first choice… promised I could headline his next production; said I belonged in Hollywood, that all the big studios would fight over me.”
Daisy’s purple painted fingernails gesticulated every sentence.
	“They took so long preparing the script, though, and then the war started and put an end to it all. We were in London, carried on for as long as we could, but we suffered too much damage one night and had to close. I was blonde then. He said I’d be London’s answer to Betty Grable… that with his contacts, I’d be huge… such an important man, you know….”
Only Imelda seemed to notice a slight hesitation in Daisy’s voice, and a subtle change in her body language as she sank back in her chair, her initial pizzazz spent.
	“Right, thank you Mrs Cooper, that was wonderful… so who’s next?”
	Jimmy sat up straight, smoothed down the plastered comb-over, and adjusted his tie. 
	“I could have been Champ, you know, but the head injury finished me. Scars still there, underneath this lot.” Jimmy pointed to his hair. “Never the same after that, not as sharp, too slow.”
	“That must have been tough for you, Mr Johnson?”
	“Yeah, well, stopped me training, see? Took so long to recover, I couldn’t get back to where I was before. But it was ok, you know, always someone wanting me to spar or help around the gym. You can’t teach experience like mine and all the big-time promoters… well, ‘Just go see Jimmy’, they’d say. ‘He’ll put you straight’.”
	And then it was Jimmy who ran out of steam. Imelda wondered if he’d lost his thread. Heaven knows how many times it happened to her these days. But her instincts told her Jimmy’s mind was elsewhere.
	“Are you ok, Mr Johnson?” Imelda felt herself warm to the reporter.
	“I get tired these days, the injury, you know. They said it would happen. But I brave it out….”
Simon poured a glass of water and handed it to Jimmy.
	“Would you like to take a break, Mr Johnson? Perhaps we can come back to you later if there’s time?”
	Aware it was her turn; Imelda felt the sleeping tiger stir inside her belly.
	“I understand you are the eldest resident here, Mrs Kawalski-Drake?”
Imelda looked back and forth between Daisy and Jimmy, hoping they would resume their reverie, but they remained subdued. Simon Cox turned to a clean page in his notepad.
	He did not fool Imelda with his feigned interest. Nor did she blame him for presuming the old lady in front of him would remember nothing worth writing about. In fact, she depended on it. Falling back on her sense of humour, she quipped.
	“But not for long, I imagine.”
	Curbed for the time being, the horrors receded into the secret vaults of human wretchedness as she navigated her very own minefield using stories of her grandchildren, the bungalow she left to come to Merriweather Court, and how she missed her garden; the rich earthy scent of damp compost running through her gloved fingers. She described every shrub and flower, using their common and Latin names, hardly stopping to breathe until the reporter’s colleague returned, summoning him to the local pub for lunch.
	The bustle of other residents preparing for dinner, and the aroma of meat and two veg heralded the major event of the day. Seizing the opportunity to take his leave, Simon shook hands with each of them, just as Shirley arrived with Imelda’s wheelchair.
	Sharing a table, the threesome sat in silence moving food around their plates uneaten before engaging in polite small talk. It was Jimmy who ended the farce.
	“I never wanted to be a fighter,” he said. “Truth is, it’s not in my nature.”
Daisy went to respond, but Imelda placed a gentle hand on her arm.
	“It was the old man who insisted. Thought it would ‘butch’ me up. In those days, there wasn’t much choice for someone like me. So, I went along with it; it was that or take the beatings.” He looked up, gesturing towards his face. “I still got beaten, just not by him.”
He dabbed his eyes with his red handkerchief, pushed his plate away, and stood up to leave.
	“Forgive me, ladies. I’m not feeling very hungry.”
Imelda made a mental note to look in on him later.
	“Poor man,” said Daisy.
For the first time, Imelda noticed that Daisy’s grey curls were running amok, her eyes were red, and her lipstick smudged.
	“Are you ok, Daisy?” Imelda asked.
	“It’s talking about the past. Brings it all back, doesn’t it, Immy? Things you’ve buried.”
Imelda laid her hand on Daisy’s arm once again and waited.
	“He used me, you know. I was never going to be England’s answer to anything, least of all Betty Grable.”
She glanced up at Imelda. There was wisdom in her eyes that Imelda hadn’t noticed before. This time, Imelda did not object to the abbreviation of her name.
	“I guess it’s the same for everyone. We’ve all got stuff we can’t handle, so we make up our own version; one we can live with. I think I’d like to lie down now, Immy. It’s been a long morning.”
	Alone with her thoughts, Imelda waited for Shirley to wheel her back to her room. They slowed down as they passed Jimmy’s door, but it was closed, the ‘Do not disturb’ sign visible.
	Depleted, Imelda gave in to a troubled sleep. The scene never changed. They lay side by side behind the barbed wire fence, their emaciated bodies indistinguishable from those that piled up behind them. She called out, reaching for them, grappling with the fence tearing into her bare flesh. Then, just as she made it through, torn and bleeding, they stood up, turned their backs, and walked away. 
	Shirley woke her. She’d missed her tea. A ham and cheese salad waited on her tray beside a cup of lukewarm tea; a thin papery film floating on its surface.
	“Let’s get you ready for bed, pet, then I’ll leave you in peace to watch a bit of tele.”
At the end of a busy day, Shirley’s morning zeal gave way to a lighter touch and never felt as bad as first thing, when Imelda’s bones still ached from the night before. 
	“I wonder if you’d fetch something from the wardrobe for me?”
	“Of course, pet, what is it you want?”
	“It’s in the bottom on the left… an old shoe box.”
Shirley retrieved the box and handed it to Imelda.
	“So what you got in there, pet, the Crown Jewels?”
	“Not quite… just some memories.”
Shirley smiled and left her to it.
	“Goodnight, pet.”
	Imelda scanned the room… the hoist stared back at her from the shadows, expectant. She turned her attention to the box. It had remained unopened in the wardrobe since she moved to Merriweather Court, and in the bottom draw of her chest of drawers for the thirty-five years she lived in her bungalow. Before that, she couldn’t remember where she’d kept it, only that she had.
	With tender care, she opened the box. Family photos taken before the war smiled up at her. The silver brooch, a favourite of her mother’s, still sparkled in her gnarled hands. She breathed in the pungent aroma of her father’s tobacco tin before opening the diary she had kept during their darkest hours. Her tears spilled unchecked onto the pages, blurring the words. She put it aside, turning back to the box. Beneath a cotton handkerchief embroidered with the letter ‘F’ lay Frieda’s hand-painted nesting dolls, the only toy she’d been allowed to keep. Imelda separated them, standing all four side by side on her food tray. Chipped and grubby, they stared back at her, waiting. She offered no resistance.
	                                                      #
	The rhythmic sound of heavy marching boots grew louder, closer, transporting her back inside the dark, dank cellar. She held her breath to avoid choking on the suffocating mix of mildew and human excrement emanating from the unemptied bucket. Was she shaking, or was it Frieda’s tiny body wrapped around her own? The trapdoor wrenched opened, exposing their sanctuary. Light penetrated, blinding her, forcing her eyes shut. The following minutes passed in slow, paralysing motion. Her father signalled for them to remain silent. She tightened her arms around her terrified sister, watching in horror as her father climbed out, heavy blows raining down on his weakened body. Her mother followed, unnecessary force, dragging her fragile body away from them. Rough, unwashed hands, serrated, blackened fingernails reaching down. Her beautiful, gentle mother; her screams reverberating through the corridors of time, merging with the harrowing, gut-wrenching cries of her father’s panic, in pitiful contrast to the cruel banter of the Gestapo. And then, the ear-splitting sound of gunfire, convulsing her body and ending his life. She’d held on to Frieda as tightly as she could, but in the end, there was nothing she could do. A small, single-minded inconsolable child needing the reassurance of her mother’s arms, rendering Imelda powerless to keep her safe. She watched her sister disappear into the light, abandoning her in their hellish sanctuary.
	They took them away, not suspecting another remained in the darkness. Imelda imagined her mother, stripped of her pride and dignity, bereft, her traumatised body struggling to function, Frieda’s face buried in what remained of her mother’s skirt.
	She would never see them again. Doomed to live her life in shame, never forgiving herself for surviving. They had satisfied their needs with her mother. They’d not bothered to look further.
	Imelda reached out, picking up the smallest of the dolls. Clutching it against her shattered heart, she whispered into the night.
	“Forgive me…”
	                                                     #
The following morning, as they gathered in the resident’s lounge of Merriweather Court, a spot next to the window overlooking the grounds remained empty. The crocuses drooped and faded had passed their former glory, and the groundsman prepared to cut the longer grass encircling the cherry tree.
","August 17, 2023 15:11","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hi Chris!\nWelcome, welcome and congratulations on the shortlist! I thought it was very poignant the way that you chose to write about a care facility, I think that we, sometimes on purpose. forget the stories that people have to tell when they end up in places out of sight and mind. I appreciate it that each of the residents had something to say beyond with the initially told in the interview. My favorite line was your observation about the stories that we tell ourselves in order to live with the past. Nice work!!', 'time': '15:23 Sep 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Belton': 'Thanks Amanda. I appreciate your comments.', 'time': '00:18 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Belton': 'Thanks Amanda. I appreciate your comments.', 'time': '00:18 Sep 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Tough theme. Delicate delivery. Powerful punch.\nCongrats on shortlist.\nWelcome to Reedsy', 'time': '19:53 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Belton': 'Thank you, I’m glad you liked it and appreciate your feedback.', 'time': '22:33 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Belton': 'Thank you, I’m glad you liked it and appreciate your feedback.', 'time': '22:33 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Philip Ebuluofor': 'Fine work. First submission, first shortlist. Congrats. Not easy.', 'time': '11:07 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Belton': 'Thank you. I am encouraged and humbled by the response to my story.', 'time': '11:14 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Belton': 'Thank you. I am encouraged and humbled by the response to my story.', 'time': '11:14 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Hannah Lynn': 'Moving story referencing a devastating time in history.  It’s important to never forget.  It stirred up a lot of emotions.  Very well done!', 'time': '21:13 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Belton': 'Thank you for taking the time to read my story. I appreciate your comments.', 'time': '12:30 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Hannah Lynn': 'Congratulations on the success of your story!  Exciting :)', 'time': '17:42 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Chris Belton': 'Thank you Helene it is very encouraging.', 'time': '23:37 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Belton': 'Thank you for taking the time to read my story. I appreciate your comments.', 'time': '12:30 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Hannah Lynn': 'Congratulations on the success of your story!  Exciting :)', 'time': '17:42 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Chris Belton': 'Thank you Helene it is very encouraging.', 'time': '23:37 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Hannah Lynn': 'Congratulations on the success of your story!  Exciting :)', 'time': '17:42 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Belton': 'Thank you Helene it is very encouraging.', 'time': '23:37 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Belton': 'Thank you Helene it is very encouraging.', 'time': '23:37 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'R W Mack': ""This is easily the strongest submission ive seen all week and it's a delight to judge and shortlist it. The title and ending sealed my decisions. The subject was strong and evocative without beating readers over the hwad with overly-descript language, the pace well-managed, and all that made it a string contender. What proved you put real thought and heart into it was the title and the ending. People forget those are also important elements in any story. The title didn't give up the story at all and got me curious before I even started readi..."", 'time': '14:58 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Chris Belton': 'Thank you so much for short listing my story. I am encouraged by your comments.', 'time': '12:29 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'R W Mack': ""Don't thank me. Thank the final round of judges. They're the ones who ultimately put you on THEIR shortlist. I only marked you as shortlisted on mine. Apparently, I'm not the only one who saw your quality of work and I'm glad to know someone saw you beyond just myself. Great work and keep going because I look forward to more."", 'time': '16:22 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Chris Belton': 'Thank you so much for short listing my story. I am encouraged by your comments.', 'time': '12:29 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'R W Mack': ""Don't thank me. Thank the final round of judges. They're the ones who ultimately put you on THEIR shortlist. I only marked you as shortlisted on mine. Apparently, I'm not the only one who saw your quality of work and I'm glad to know someone saw you beyond just myself. Great work and keep going because I look forward to more."", 'time': '16:22 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'R W Mack': ""Don't thank me. Thank the final round of judges. They're the ones who ultimately put you on THEIR shortlist. I only marked you as shortlisted on mine. Apparently, I'm not the only one who saw your quality of work and I'm glad to know someone saw you beyond just myself. Great work and keep going because I look forward to more."", 'time': '16:22 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,fn9bid,The Wandering Path,Anna W,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/fn9bid/,/short-story/fn9bid/,Fiction,0,"['Fiction', 'Inspirational']",17 likes,"
Content warning: grief, loss, death, child death
 
	It was dark and humid, and she couldn’t see very far past the dim light of the fire. A circle of tree stumps sat around the fire. Lydia entered the circle, surprised at being the first to arrive at her post, and chose a seat at random. The warmth of the fire was comforting, but added to the sheen of sweat that gathered on her forehead. 
 
	Her feet ached. She had been walking for miles. It always feels like miles, she thought to herself. She flipped her long, dark braid to her other shoulder, gathered up her skirts, and slipped off her roped sandals to massage her feet. She knew the discomfort would recede quickly, but she still liked to help it along. 
 
	Her feet should be full of fine lines and veins that stand out under thin skin. She remembers the age spots that had covered her 85 year old face and body. But they are gone now. Replaced with a version of her skin that was somewhere around twenty-five to thirty years old. They had gotten to choose what age they’d preferred to look, and this had been Lydia’s choice. 
 
	The darkness outside the small circle of light was looming, but she wasn’t afraid of it. She knew this darkness well, but also knew it wasn’t alive. It only seemed alive if you stared too long. It only consumed you if you didn’t have the Light with you, and she always carried the Light with her. 
 
	She set down her burning torch, placing the burning tip into the fire to keep burning. It would burn continually, and she was a creature of habit. She glanced around at the paths, worn by being tread so often, by so many. They all headed in different directions. She was sure that if she chose one for herself, it would lead somewhere else. Onward. Home. For now, Lydia was content to be part of the circle, and glad to be off her aching feet.
 
	A bouncing light came down one of the pathways, small, but powerful and far reaching. She squinted as the light bounced over her face, shielding her eyes. Despite his tall frame, his steps were nearly silent on the trail. Peter smiled knowingly at the sight of her putting her sandals back on. He’d felt the pain of long walks in the night, but didn’t seem to mind. His body healed quickly, too. He gracefully sat down onto the tree stump next to her, and clicked the button on his flashlight to turn it off. 
 
	“Hello, old friend. You know, you don’t have to carry around the old torch anymore. Creator issued us modern light-carriers a while back,” he smiled, and gestured with his flashlight. 
 
	“Greetings to you too, Peter. Yes, yes. I know about the fancy flashlights, but this feels more comfortable to me. Reminds me of home. I know you like to keep up with the times, and I admire that. I’m stuck in my ways, I suppose. Besides, the wanderers expect something cryptic and old fashioned like this, right?” She watched him as he brushed stray leaves off his thick denim pants and flannel shirt. He hit his hiking boot against the ground to shake off the excess mud that had gathered, first one, then the other.
 
	“Not the new wanderers. They often expect nothing, actually. Most are shocked to even find me in their path,” Peter shrugged, “Gotta admit, sometimes it’s fun to set them straight. Some of them take a lot of convincing, but I always get them where they need to go.” 
 
	Lydia sighed, feeling the weight of her responsibilities more acutely tonight. “Yes, I know you do, and I’m so grateful for that,” she said as she patted his shoulder. She glanced around at the other empty tree stumps. “Where are the other guides? I was doing some extra rounds, down some of the old paths, and I didn’t see anyone. Must be a busy night.” 
 
	Peter’s eyebrows shot up, as he leaned in closer to Lydia, “The old paths? Oh friend, you know you don’t need to take all that work on yourself. Let some of the newbies look on the old paths for wanderers who have strayed. They need the experience, and some of them still need to get acquainted with the dark. Their eyes are open to the Light, but their resolve could use a bit of work.” 
 
	Lydia let out a chuckle. It broke through the downward pressure that her sadness placed on her shoulders. It seemed to loosen something tight that had clenched in her chest. It turned into full blown laughter, which rolled on and on, past rationality. She felt some relief from the weight in her chest as she felt Peter’s hand rest on hers. His touch was gentle and brotherly. His eyes crinkled with joy as he shared in her laughter. Lydia wiped away the few tears that rolled down her cheeks, whether from laughter or grief, she did not know. 
 
	“You know, I thought when I took this job that I would grow immune to all the stories of pain. I thought I’d hear the occasional sad story, but that most wanderers would remember the joy. But it seems like despair is all I hear about these days. Lives filled with war, loss, and abuse, that ended with even more trauma passed on to the next generation.” She sniffed, and wiped her nose on the linen sleeve of her simple dress. Her laughter was gone, now.
 
	“Some don’t experience much joy in their lives, unfortunately.” Peter sighed, eyebrows drawing together in concentration. Lydia knew he didn’t like to focus on the darker aspects of human life, and much preferred to look toward the Light. Her own tendency to stare too long into the darkness was something that plagued her in her former life. It seems to have stuck with her in this life, as well. She found her eyes stuck to the fire, and nodded in agreement, not knowing what to say to that difficult truth. 
 
	“There is a comfort you bring to those who meet you on the Wandering Path, Lydia. You see them, wholly and completely. Not as a compilation of painful experiences, or as some uncomfortable amalgamation of negative feelings that you need to fix. You see them as a whole person. The good, the bad, the ugly.""
 
She shook her head slightly, but Peter just continued on. 
 
""You see the Creator’s imprint on their heart, which no darkness can consume. Your ability to see them this way, and to lean in with compassion is a great strength. It helps you to guide them from the Wandering Path, and into the Light. But I know it can also be a great torment when their pain seems to burrow right into your skin and settle in your heart. I’ve felt it, too. You don’t need to bear this pain alone, friend.” 
 
	He smiled kindly, grasped her small, unwrinkled hand in his own, and rubbed the back of her hand with his calloused thumb. She felt the callouses, indicative of the difficult life he had experienced in his own human life. Though their bodies were young and something more than human, now, some scars of life run too deep to fade. 
 
	Lydia squeezed his hand in gratitude. She was grateful for Peter’s willingness to sit with her in her grief, allowing her to feel the burden of life and existence. She took a deep breath, and realized it had been a while since she’d done that. She closed her eyes, continuing her deep breaths and listening to the sound of the wild woods around her. 
 
	A small whimper floated into their circle, and the two companions turned to look for the source of the sound. A small boy stood outside the tree line, a few feet behind the circle of tree stumps. His colorful hospital gown reached past his knees. Peter and Lydia exchanged a look, knowing they must shift gears to complete their duties. Each knew they must set down their own feelings, for now. They could come back to this conversation later. They had all the time in the world. 
 
	Lydia bent to grab her torch, and felt Peter’s steadying hand under her arm as she straightened back up. She met his gaze, his eyes still crinkled in a joy that never faded, no matter how dark the Wandering Path got. 
 
	“No more crying, friend. We're all dying here.” Peter whispered to her, his bemused smile reaching through the heaviness of her heart. She felt her own mouth lift at the edges, at Peter’s odd but comforting mantra. She’d heard him say it thousands of times, now. He was right, in a way. All humanity is in the path of death, just at different points. 
 
	They walked over to the young boy, and Peter waved, searching the boy’s weary face to ensure they weren’t scaring him. 
 
	“Where am I? Who are you?” the boy whispered. 
 
	“You’re in-between, right now, but you are safe, dear child.” Lydia replied, as Peter took another step forward, and knelt down to get eye level with him. 
 
	“I am Peter. This is Lydia. We were waiting for you. What’s your name, young wanderer?” Peter asked, his voice gentle. 
 
	“P-Paul. My n-name is Paul. Where’s my mom? Is this the hospital garden?” A tear escaped his eye. He brushed it away, lip quivering as he looked around at the dark night sky and the overgrown wilderness around them.
 
	Lydia took a deep breath to keep her emotions in check, as they threatened to overflow. Her heart ached. Another life cut short. Far too short. She kept smiling kindly at Paul, holding her torch up a bit higher to illuminate more of the area. 
 
	Peter’s grin grew wide, “It’s such an honor to meet you, Paul. What a great name! You know, one of my very best friends is named Paul. Would you like to meet him? He’s just down this other path. I don’t think your mom is here yet, but we can go somewhere warm and wait for her. We could all walk together, if you’d like. Does that sound okay to you?” 
 
	Paul looked from Lydia to Peter, seeing nothing but kindness and love in their faces, and nodded. Peter reached his hand out, palm up, and Paul took it, leaning in close to the tall man. 
 
	“Want to carry the flashlight? It’s a big responsibility, but you seem like a trustworthy young man,” Peter asked, nudging his small shoulder with his elbow, playfully. Paul grinned and puffed his chest out, as excitement took over.
 
	“Yes! I can do that. I know I’m short for my age, but I’ll be eight years old on my birthday next month,” he said and took the flashlight from Peter. The pale boy pointed it directly out in front of him, as they walked around the tree stumps and took a wide, well-worn path on the other side. 
 
	Lydia followed behind them, raising her torch to help brighten the way before them. She knew Paul would never have that eighth birthday, and felt a pang of sadness for the family that he left behind. He was safe, here, though. His body was whole, and he would go to be with his Creator. All the children do. There are no more tears and no more sorrow in the Light.
 
	Beside the grief in her aching heart bloomed this small pocket of gratitude. She remembered why she volunteered for this role. She could have chosen to stay in the Light, removed from feeling the sorrow and despair of humanity. And yet, despite the darkness surrounding them in the Wandering Path, just for this moment, her thankfulness couldn't be overcome by sorrow. 
 
She was truly thankful that she and Peter got to walk with the small child down the Wandering Path. Comforting him. Hearing his story. Letting him know that he is loved, and that a great, unending joy awaits him in the Light. 
 
	It wasn’t Peter’s certainty that gave her the strength to continue walking the Wandering Path, though. It was how clearly he saw Lydia, even in the times where she felt overwhelmed by her own darkness. Being seen and being loved had the power to lift her up off of that tree stump, and given her the strength to put one foot in front of the other down the Wandering Path. 
 
	She knew it had the power to lift up others, as well. Peter had an unyielding and contagious faith that the Light was more powerful than the darkness. That it would eventually overcome the darkness altogether, and blot it out. She took another step, and another, still following behind the pair in front of her, who were becoming fast friends. 
 
 Every life is a story, and every story matters, no matter how brief, she thought to herself. Paul was sweeping the flashlight around him, as they walked. As the flashlight and Lydia's torch illuminated the dark path on either side of them, they saw beautiful blooming fields of flowers, green tall trees, and heard the sound of a quiet stream of water nearby. Paul let out peals of laughter and had a pure, joyful wonder in his voice. He marveled at what he saw, and Lydia knew that this time with Paul was a healing balm that she would never forget. 
 
	She whispered a prayer of thanks for the difficult blessing of being able to carry the Light into the darkness. The tension was still there for her, and she knew it always would be. Seeing darkness and death up close felt so wrong, because she, like all of humanity, wasn't created for death, but for life. 
 
She knew that trying to carry the weight of darkness for all humanity was too big a weight to bear, but she could help Paul. And the next wanderer, and the next. She would focus on illuminating the darkness, one wanderer at a time, until they can all see the Light for themselves. 
 
 
","August 13, 2023 04:37","[[{'Derrick M Domican': 'This is so good Anna. I love how you start this off. First it seems historical but how Lydia is dressed, then it seems future scifi by her return to youth and then it goes otherworldly and THEN.... \nYes this is a nice balance of grief and hope and I love the idea of the guides \n\n--All humanity is in the path of death, just at different points.\xa0\nBrilliant line!', 'time': '08:15 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '4'}, [{'Anna W': 'Thank you Derrick!', 'time': '12:33 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Anna W': 'Thank you Derrick!', 'time': '12:33 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Like this story of moving into the Light very much,Anna. Good job.😇', 'time': '16:57 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '3'}, [{'Anna W': ""Thank you Mary! You're too kind! :)"", 'time': '18:53 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Anna W': ""Thank you Mary! You're too kind! :)"", 'time': '18:53 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Michał Przywara': ""Seems like two spirits, or spirit guides, there to tend to the recently departed, if I'm reading it right. The interesting thing here is Lydia's reflections, and the fact that while she likes her work, it's also stressful. It reminds me of careers like working at a suicide helpline or something similar - a job that helps, but that nevertheless exacts a toll.\n\nSo Peter coming to her aid - offering a connection, some common ground - makes sense. She realizes she's not alone.\n\nAn interesting take on the newly dead and their journey beyond - tha..."", 'time': '21:57 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anna W': 'Thank you Michal!!', 'time': '02:09 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Anna W': 'Thank you Michal!!', 'time': '02:09 Aug 28, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Ela Mikh': 'Amazing story, so much sadness and sincerity. Only someone who experienced pain can truly feel the devastation of such loss. Thank you for sharing', 'time': '22:46 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anna W': ""You're right, it's such a unique and terrible loss. Thank you for stopping by to read, Ela!"", 'time': '14:37 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anna W': ""You're right, it's such a unique and terrible loss. Thank you for stopping by to read, Ela!"", 'time': '14:37 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'David Sweet': 'I really liked this story. At first, I thought it might be the ghosts or spirits of individuals who had died on the Appalachian Trail, or had a strong attachment to it. Then, I realized where you were going. I also am an Appalachian writer and can see our folklore weaved throughout. Thanks for such a strong and poignant story! Keep up the great work!!', 'time': '12:59 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anna W': ""Wow, thank you for your kind words David! I'm glad you can feel the spirit of Appalachia in it, because when I picture nature or forests, it's often those sweet mountains that come to mind. \n\nI'm always glad to find other writers from Appalachia on here. I've followed you to make sure I can keep up with your stories, as well. Thanks again for reading and taking the time to comment."", 'time': '15:12 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'David Sweet': 'Thank you!', 'time': '20:37 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'David Sweet': 'Thank you!!', 'time': '20:38 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anna W': ""Wow, thank you for your kind words David! I'm glad you can feel the spirit of Appalachia in it, because when I picture nature or forests, it's often those sweet mountains that come to mind. \n\nI'm always glad to find other writers from Appalachia on here. I've followed you to make sure I can keep up with your stories, as well. Thanks again for reading and taking the time to comment."", 'time': '15:12 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'David Sweet': 'Thank you!', 'time': '20:37 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'David Sweet': 'Thank you!!', 'time': '20:38 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'David Sweet': 'Thank you!', 'time': '20:37 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'David Sweet': 'Thank you!!', 'time': '20:38 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Really enjoyed this one Anna!\n\nDO go towards the Light. :)', 'time': '18:57 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anna W': 'Thanks JD! I definitely will! :)', 'time': '03:29 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '3'}]], [{'Anna W': 'Thanks JD! I definitely will! :)', 'time': '03:29 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '3'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,7jvn0q,Sister Bernadette's Reverse Exorcisms,DR Forge,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/7jvn0q/,/short-story/7jvn0q/,Fiction,0,['Fantasy'],15 likes,"
Sister Bernadette was not particularly brave or strong like a bear, despite her namesake. She was, however, clever like a fox, which served her much better in a place where power marked you as prey worse than any weakness ever could. She flexed her stiff hands around the polished wooden handles of her armchair, considering when the right time was to make her move. Her back was straight and her gaze steady, the very picture of poise and grace. Inside, however, she trembled like a leaf clinging to a branch in a thunderstorm. “Can you say that again, but slower?” She cocked her head at the creature before her, tucking a wisp of gray hair back underneath her habit. The creature’s form seemed to undulate and shift, never quite settling into a shape that the human eye could comfortably grasp. Its own bulbous eyes lacked traditional lids, instead periodically rolling back to be replaced by a variety of new pupils of all shapes and sizes. It was utterly monolithic in the small library, slopping out of its armchair in undulating appendages that simultaneously seemed solid and vapor. The overall effect was altogether totally at odds with the cozy interior of soft pillows spilling over overstuffed chairs and well-loved, tiny tchotchkes filling every square inch of space that didn’t hold books. But despite its very unusual and inhuman form, the creature’s irritation was palpable. “Human speech is tiresome,” it grumbled, its voice a growling sound like cogs striking against each other in an aged machine. “I have told you thrice what I am searching for.”The unlikely companions sat across from each other in a cloistered library filled with whispering books and quiet nooks. An old fireplace sat between them, a silent but inquisitive third party to their conversation. It hissed and sputtered merrily, sending out puffs of soot that almost seemed like smoke signals.Tendrils of ivy, dotted with the last blushing blooms of summer, crept through the window frames. The leaves rustled softly, their verdant green tinged with the first hints of autumn gold. Sister Bernadette held a finger to her lips in a silent shushing gesture.“Just once more, dear, I want to make sure I’ve got it down. Usually, I read lips, but unfortunately, you don’t have any.” A black curl of smoke twisted around her ankle, and she subtly toed it away, pulling her skirts to cover it.Flames flickered and danced in the fireplace between them, casting long shadows throughout the library. Though it was technically still summer, a cool northern wind had blown in a reminder that fall was on its way. Or perhaps, it was another symptom of this creature finding its way to her doorstep. The cool breeze mingled with the fragrance of old parchment, wax candles, and a hint of wild berries that grew in the courtyard.“I. Need. A. Pool. Of. Endless. Moonlight.”“A pool of endless moonlight,” Sister Bernadette repeated slowly. “And where, dear creature, would one find such a thing in this mortal realm?”“I was told you would know.” The creature snapped at her. “I was told to come to you.” It slithered out of its seat in agitation, reforming in an even more menacing form. The books seemed to whisper to one another in the stillness of the room, their covers pulsating with hues of amethyst, sapphire, and deep azure. A few books loosed themselves from the shelves and dropped to the floor, the entire room seeming to mirror the creature’s uneasiness. One of the books hopped a few steps before being stilled by a stern look from Sister Bernadette.“What was that? Did you hear that?” The creature barked. Despite its bluster, the Sister’s discerning gaze caught a desperation that was almost pitiable in its visage. “Very well,” Sister Bernadette said calmly, the gears of her mind turning. She hid a smile through a sip of tea. “Let’s assume that such a pool exists or can be created. What do you intend to do with it?”“That is not your concern.” The creature huffed.“Ah, but it must be my concern,” Sister Bernadette replied, setting her teacup down on the matching saucer with a gentle clink. Her eyes twinkled above rosy wrinkled cheeks. “I cannot help you find something without knowing its purpose. Knowledge is a sword, dear creature, and I must know to what end it will be wielded.”The creature’s form writhed and shifted, its unease growing. Its eyes, now like bottomless pits, seemed to search the room, perhaps looking for an escape or a weakness in the Sister’s resolve.“I... I am lost,” it finally admitted, its voice softer, like the distant rumbling of thunder. “I have heard that the pool of endless moonlight is a gateway to my home. I am trapped in your world. Time runs differently here, and with every passing moment, I become less... less myself.”Sister Bernadette’s stern expression softened, and she reached out, her hand hovering just above the ever-changing surface of the creature. “I see your suffering,” she said, her voice filled with compassion. “But know that meddling with such cosmic forces requires caution, understanding. There are paths that should not be tread, doors that should not be opened. But if your cause is just, I will help you find your way.”The creature seemed to relax, its form settling into something less chaotic. The room’s temperature, which had dropped noticeably during their conversation, began to warm again. Sister Bernadette rubbed her hands together in front of the flames, which stretched up to meet them. She rolled up the sleeves of her habit so they wouldn’t get singed.“And what will the trade be?”The creature’s eyes, now shimmering with a thousand colors, seemed to widen momentarily. Its form shifted, becoming more solid and more focused. The abstract nature of its body condensed into something resembling a face, though more like one you imagined while gazing at storm clouds.“The trade?” It asked, a hint of uncertainty in its tone.“Yes, the trade,” Sister Bernadette repeated, her eyes never leaving the creature. “Nothing comes without a price. There’s always a balance to be struck. You want my help, my knowledge. What will you offer in return? What will be our bargain?”The room grew still, the only sound the crackling of the fireplace and the distant echo of the wind howling outside. Sister Bernadette could feel the weight of the question.“I can offer knowledge,” the creature said finally, its voice deep and resonating, like the sound of a gong. “Knowledge beyond your world, beyond your understanding. Secrets of the cosmos, the nature of existence, the fabric of reality itself.”Sister Bernadette’s voice carried a tone of both amusement and wisdom as she continued, “Knowledge I have sought, and knowledge I have found. What you offer is a path I have already trodden.”“Then what do you seek, wise Sister?” it asked, its voice tinged with grudging respect and no small amount of desperation. “What can I offer that would tempt you to aid me?”“Deliver us not into temptation!” The Sister laughed at her joke, coughing dryly, and then stopped, her face growing cunning. She crossed her legs, almost knocking down the walking stick that lay propped against the side of the chair. “Did you not have an idea of what my price would be from those who sent you to this place?” She settled herself, steeling against the eagerness that threatened to overtake her calm façade. The creature hesitated, choosing its words carefully. “They said you were wise, learned beyond most in your world. They said you could guide me, assist me. But they did not mention a price.”“Ah, the folly of those who do not understand the ways of humans.” Sister Bernadette’s voice was tinged with understanding and a hint of mischief. “In our world, dear creature, nothing of value comes without cost. Everything must be earned, traded, or paid for.”“Not taken?” The creature’s tone was a growl of warning. Tendrils erupted from it with a life of their own, writhing and twisting, their tips sharpened like the claws of some predatory bird. Sister Bernadette, who was not notably brave, swallowed deeply and blinked, trying to maintain her placid demeanor.“What would you take?” Sister Bernadette asked quietly. The creature seemed to slump.“So what is the cost, then?”“Let us first see if I have what you need.” She held her walking stick and lifted herself from her chair with a groan of effort.Together, they moved through the library, the creature’s form now calm, its eyes fixed on the elderly nun with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety. Unbeknownst to them both, a tendril of smoke followed, twirling closely behind Sister Bernadette’s legs, and a few escaped pages of books flapped quietly in the air above them.A small, unassuming door stood at the far end of the library, hidden behind ancient tapestries and dusty shelves. Sister Bernadette unlocked it, revealing a narrow closet filled with overstuffed shelves. Among the objects lay a simple bowl cast in a dark wood, carved with a moon at the bottom. It was unassuming, yet it caught the creature’s eyes, and it felt a pull, a connection, a recognition.“This,” Sister Bernadette said, her voice soft, her eyes fixed on the bowl, “is what you seek. A gateway, a connection to your home. Gaze into it, and you will see how to get there.” She lifted the bowl with some difficulty, trying not to spill the water within, and placed it on a table in front of one of the library’s vaulted stained glass windows.“So it was as easy as that.” The creature said, punctuating its sentence with a disgruntled sigh. With four or so of its eyes, it peeked over the brim.“But I only see my reflection in this room.”“Ah.” Was all that Sister Bernadette said.The creature’s eyes were transfixed on the bowl.“So perhaps, then, this might be your home.” Sister Bernadette's voice was barely audible. The creature tore its eyes away from the moon carving, looking at the nun.“What do you mean?” The creature's tone was a surprised hiss.“Perhaps, instead of trying to claw your way through the cosmos and back to where you came, you might stay here. With me.” A tiny two-page book excerpt landed on Sister Bernadette's shoulder, flapping its pages like butterfly wings. “With us.” Smoke twirled around her head, tugging free a few gray curls from her cowl that she hastily tucked back in.“This nunnery is filled with creatures like you. Your brethren grow our garden, stoke our fires, and keep this place running.” She continued, lovingly tapping the pages on her shoulder. The creatures’ many eyes seemed to widen.“You said you were changing!” Sister Bernadette rushed on. “Perhaps it is not because you have lost connection with your home. Perhaps, you have come to like this world. Or even love it.” The creature’s aura was skeptical, dark appendages stretching wider as it seemed to prepare to argue. Sister Bernadette swallowed again, looking for her voice.“Perhaps…Perhaps there is something else you feel a connection to in this room?” The creature paused. “Other than the pool…” It trailed off, its eyes scanning the room in every direction at once. Suddenly they stopped, all pointing towards the same thing. Sister Bernadette followed the creature’s multifaceted gaze, her eyes twinkling with a blend of compassion and mischief. “I sense a longing within you, creature. A hunger that can’t be sated merely by returning to where you came from. There’s something else, something in this world that calls to you.”The creature’s countless eyes, now fixed on an object propped in the corner of the room, began to shimmer with various shades of excitement and curiosity. Its form began to undulate more rapidly as if resonating with something unknown.“That thing,” it whispered, its voice a blend of awe and fascination, “what is it? I feel it calling to me. It’s... It’s hungry, like me.”“That is something quite special, dear creature. An object that might indeed mirror your nature.”The creature moved closer, its form stretching toward the silvery object. The reflection in the chrome seemed to dance and twist, echoing the creature’s fluid movement.“It’s just like me,” It said, its voice trembling with emotion. “It wants to consume, to devour. It’s never satisfied.”“The choice, of course, is up to you.” The creature considered Sister Bernadette, the wooden bowl, and the prize that so tempted it. There was the sound of a pop! And then a dull roar.A moment later, a soft shuffle of footsteps sounded, and a short figure dressed in a black habit just like Sister Bernadette’s but adorned with a simple rope belt ambled into the room. Her eyes were sharp and snapping as she leaned against the armchair, somewhat breathless with the effort of crossing the expanse of the rug-covered wooden floor.“Well, well, well. Who is my vacuum now, Sister?” The vacuum buzzed and flickered its lights in response, cycling through the buttons in a way not unlike its many eyes once worked. Sister Bernadette walked back to the wooden bowl on the table, lifting it to pull off the circular mirror taped to the bottom. She flicked her hand to dry off the water droplets and set the mirror on the sill to dry. She would need it later when she brushed her hair before bed. “Greetings, Sister Theodora. This would be the Demon Bro…Broililzthgigh. Broililzgurgh. Hmm… Perhaps Broil for short.” Sister Theodora chuckled, and Sister Bernadette found herself laughing along with her.“Alright then. Come now, Broil, let us go forth and bring tidings of tidiness.”And with a sound that was half growl and half purr, the once-terrifying demon, now a gleaming, proudly refurbished vacuum named Broil, set forth with its new mistress, ready to devour the dust of the world.Sister Bernadette walked to the windowsill and sipped her now-cold tea, looking out on the garden below beyond the “pool of endless moonlight.” The window was open to let in the air, and outside, the garden was now becoming bathed in real moonlight. The stars seemed to stretch on forever in the dusky sky. A sprig of ivy wrapped itself around her wrist like a bracelet. A mop had marched itself into the room to clean up the small pool of water left by her hands on the floor. It bumped back and forth between the wall and the nearest rug.“Are you happy here?” Sister Bernadette asked.The mop twirled in response, tiny droplets of water hitting her skirts and sizzling onto the fire, which made a snapping sound of irritation. Sister Bernadette considered the spinning mop. It couldn’t do much else, to be fair. But it certainly seemed peppy enough. She shrugged her shoulders, picked up her walking stick, and made her way to the hallway to call for the teapot. It always took a while for it to get up the stairs.
","August 18, 2023 11:05","[[{'Hana Lang': 'This story was so much fun to read! I really enjoyed the pacing and the world building, and in particular how all the details you included (for example, the whispering books! at first it seemed like a lovely atmospheric detail, but then a couple sentences later it started to sink in that no, they’re actually sentient) slowly unveiled the details of the world you created. Thank you for sharing!', 'time': '02:29 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Emilie Ocean': ""I loved Sister Bernadette's Reverse Exorcisms! Your world-building is on point and I reveled in the suspense. Sister Bernadette is a bad-ass haha"", 'time': '16:17 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,0jij4s,You Can't Judge a...,John Steckley,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0jij4s/,/short-story/0jij4s/,Fiction,0,"['Fiction', 'Funny', 'Happy']",15 likes,"
You Can’t Judge a…		He had been at the Happy Valley Seniors Retreat for slightly less than two months now, but still very few of the people there, young staff or aged inhabitants, had ever heard him speak. And those that had wouldn’t call it conversational speech, but only a little more than a grunt in response to a question or comment. He never initiated a vocal interaction. 		Sometimes people, and not just those who did not know his ‘real’ name of George, called him by the name of ‘Stones’ whenever they gossiped about him. One inmate, who always wore a suit, just called him ‘Stoner’. That was because he always carried five small, smooth stones in his left pocket. When he was sitting in his favourite chair in the common room, he would take them out and stare at them as if he was communicating with them in some way, or that he thought that they were communicating with him, giving him advice. One of those stones, a soft shade of brown, and very, very smooth, he would turn over and over again with his left hand, like it was a source of emotional comfort.  		He also always carried an old fountain pen with him (people wondered where he got the ink) in his right hand some scrap paper to write on, in his left. Some unkind people, including one staff member and one very sarcastic fellow elder, would say beyond his hearing, “Stones is writing a reminder for him to go for a pee. Otherwise he will forget and pee himself silly, and his favourite chair will have to be washed.” It spread throughout the home, like pee down a pantleg, as did many an insider joke.The general consensus was in tea-time discussions of fellow inmates that there did not look like there were any significant problems with his body. Although George very much looked his age of 80 with his white hair and the wrinkles on his face and neck, no one had ever see him fall or even stumble. Although he usually walked slowly, there was no noticeable limp to his steps. And he regularly ate hardy meals. Still, most on the inmates who thought about him felt that the same could not be said of his mind. George did occasionally walk into a door when he had stones and paper in hand. And it had been a long time since anyone had tried to engage him in conversation, that included both staff and fellow elders alike. The most that was directed his way was a very slow ‘Could…..you…..pass….the….peas….please’ at the meal table, to which he promptly responded with a positive grunt and a passing of the peas.		On those few instances in which he was coerced into playing large crowd bingo, which the inhabitants were forced to engage in as their caretakers felt that all seniors got their weekly excitement from the game, the people sitting beside him would be instructed to say ‘bingo’ for him if the lineup of numbers was right. He never won, but his bingo table neighbours were always ready to call out the magic word for him. Some would even suggest that he put down his pen and put away his piece of paper, so that he could concentrate completely on the game.		For there was a faraway look in his eyes most of the time he was there, like his mind had wandered away and would not be coming back any time soon. When staff wanted him to go somewhere, say to crowd bingo, or to hear a visiting speaker, they would tell him, wait a few seconds, and then direct him with both hands so he would not go to the wrong place. He did not complain in response, he just followed where he was directed. He wasn’t difficult to handle in that way.The Day of Great Revelation		Then came the day of the great revelation. He had visitors, which was certainly a first for him. To anyone’s knowledge, no friends or family had ever come to see him. His visitors on that day wore suits and one of them carried a book, which he handed over to George, like he was presenting him with an award. Then the people in the home saw a rare sight. George actually smiled, fully and completely, and even went so far as to actually hug the book, and then the one who presented the book to him. What’s more, he spoke to the visitors in coherent sentences, thanking them profusely for giving him a copy of his latest book. In his words, he was ‘over the moon’.        Curiosity in the common room grew quickly. A small crowd slowly walked over towards the three men, to see what this was all about. They were surprised, close to being shocked when they read that the first name of the author on the book cover was ‘George’. Only the staff members knew that the second name of Smithson was his as well. That knowledge spread quickly.  Stones had written a book!George Speaks 		Then George spoke to the growing audience. “I’m sure you guys and girls have been wondering what I have been doing, what with my ‘communicating with stones’, that has earned me the name “Stones.” I don’t mind that name. I’ve heard worse. I use them to help me focus on the books I write. It seemed to work with my first book, so I use them now for every book that I have written since. I will have my publisher bring copies of my books to the library here soon, for you to read.. Don’t worry, none of the characters in the book are based on my experiences with any of you good people. That would be nasty.           I promise that I will be more of a ‘human being’ over the next few weeks. I always take a mental break after I have published a book. I can even hold a conversation. Thank you for your tolerance. Now I will introduce you to my five stones. Each of them has a name. I will begin with Alfred.” With those words he dug into his pocket and brought out a smooth light brown oval-shaped stone. No one left the room when he spoke of it.           A new expression emerged in the Happy Valley Seniors Retreat, “Never judge an author by his stones.”                                   
","August 15, 2023 16:40","[[{'Lily Finch': 'Hi John, an interesting tale about stones assisting the author to write his books. George is a remarkably unique individual known as eccentric. I might suggest. \nLF6', 'time': '00:32 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'John Steckley': 'Thanks again Lily.  The part of having five stones in his pocket comes from what my life.  They help me focus.', 'time': '11:07 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'Lily Finch': 'Cool. Just so cool. LF6', 'time': '13:37 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'John Steckley': 'Thanks.  It was fun to introduce the idea of the five stones into one of my story.', 'time': '15:54 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John Steckley': 'Thanks again Lily.  The part of having five stones in his pocket comes from what my life.  They help me focus.', 'time': '11:07 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'Cool. Just so cool. LF6', 'time': '13:37 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'John Steckley': 'Thanks.  It was fun to introduce the idea of the five stones into one of my story.', 'time': '15:54 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'Cool. Just so cool. LF6', 'time': '13:37 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'John Steckley': 'Thanks.  It was fun to introduce the idea of the five stones into one of my story.', 'time': '15:54 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John Steckley': 'Thanks.  It was fun to introduce the idea of the five stones into one of my story.', 'time': '15:54 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'A very interesting tale John. Not that much ""happening"" but I was drawn into the story by its very simplicity. Your plot and dialogue are first class.\n\nYou might consider splitting some of your longer paragraphs. I personally think that such a simple move will increase the story momentum and draw more readers into it.', 'time': '17:43 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'John Steckley': 'Thanks Bruce, I appreciate both the positive comments and the advice.  I will have a look at the paragraphs, and break them up.', 'time': '18:09 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John Steckley': 'Thanks Bruce, I appreciate both the positive comments and the advice.  I will have a look at the paragraphs, and break them up.', 'time': '18:09 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Helen A Smith': 'I love this engaging story John. \nThe stones totally held my attention. Having them and finding value in them is the sort of thing an artist or creative person would do. The writer’s silence was intriguing and I found it extremely rewarding when he finally got some visitors and the truth emerged. The bitchy people were shortsighted in their judgements and “Stones” got the last laugh. \nWell done.', 'time': '15:25 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'John Steckley': 'Thanks for your comments.  It was a lot of fun writing this story.  And I carry five small stones in my left pocket, but nobody knows that but my wife and one of our nephews.', 'time': '19:04 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Helen A Smith': '😊 Stones are beautiful.', 'time': '19:25 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'John Steckley': 'Thanks for your comments.  It was a lot of fun writing this story.  And I carry five small stones in my left pocket, but nobody knows that but my wife and one of our nephews.', 'time': '19:04 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Helen A Smith': '😊 Stones are beautiful.', 'time': '19:25 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Helen A Smith': '😊 Stones are beautiful.', 'time': '19:25 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,d4d98u,My Purple Gang Fiasco,Bruce Friedman,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/d4d98u/,/short-story/d4d98u/,Fiction,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Crime', 'Funny']",14 likes,"
“Welcome to my cigar store,” I said as the stout, older man entered. “I’m glad you dropped in today. Not much business these days or customers to chat with. Cigar smoking is much less popular than in the old days. I just turned 80 and I’m looking to sell the shop but I’m not optimistic that I can find a suitable buyer. My store's been a landmark on the block for more than seventy years. But I’m rambling, just like the old man that I am. How can I help you?”“Well,” the customer responded. “I’m interested in trying one of your Cuban cigars. I love them but find them hard to find in stores these days. However, now that you’ve raised the topic, I’m also interested in hearing about your long career. What’s it been like here over all of the years? I suspect sort of uneventful, even boring, just standing here behind the counter and working the cash register.”“You’re largely correct,"" I said. ""It’s now 1986 but something happened to me more than 60 years ago that turned me into a mob desperado of sorts for a few months. I was able to put the incident in the rear-view mirror with some effort, but it took a while. I don’t mind telling you about this chapter of my life. Interested?""***“I was born in Detroit in the Hastings neighborhood, part of what was known as Paradise Valley. The area was later demolished to make space for the superhighways crisscrossing Detroit for the benefit of the suburban folks. It was unlike any ‘paradise’ you’ve ever seen. Run-down houses and apartment buildings, dirty streets, lots of trash strewn around, and small businesses. My parents had emigrated from Poland in 1901 because some of their relatives were already here and also because of the cheap rent. “My father worked in this store but it was owned by his uncle Jake. He didn’t think it necessary to pay living wages, even (or especially) to relatives. It was a hard life but the family made it through somehow. I pretty much grew up on the streets, sometimes getting into trouble with the law. Nothing too serious. I soon learned, however, about the risk of running with the wrong crowd. “In 1922, I was sixteen and looking for a job of any kind to help at home. One of my father’s best customers at the cigar store was Izzy Bernstein. He and his brothers had created the Purple Gang. The gang’s meanness was such that they quickly dominated the Detroit underworld and were feared by everyone. Even Capone, who had entered into a deal with them to supply bootleg liquor for Chicago, showed them respect.“This was Prohibition but whiskey could be easily obtained in Windsor, only a couple of miles across the Detroit River that separated Detroit from Canada. Canada had banned the use of alcoholic beverages like in the U.S. but still licensed distilleries and breweries to manufacture and export alcohol. Canada was thus able to satisfy the thirst of Detroit’s 20,000 speakeasy’s and blind pigs as well as its illegal Canadian trade.“My dad mentioned to Izzy one day in the store that I was looking for a job and he, in a jovial mood as he lit up one of his Havana cigars, told dad to send me over to the 'social club' where he and the Purples hung out at all hours of the day. And this was exactly where I headed one cold, rainy Tuesday morning in January. ""I was wearing only a thin coat and was wet and shivering. I knocked on the front door and was greeted, sized-up, and patted-down by a tough-looking guy who was guarding the door. I said that I had an appointment with Izzy and he pointed toward a long corridor to the left. I needed to pass through the main room where a bunch of guys in suits and ties were lounging on sofas and chairs scattered across the room. None of them paid any attention to me.“Come on in, kid,” Izzy said after I knocked lightly on his office door. He motioned for me to sit in the chair opposite his desk. “Your dad told me that you’re looking for a job. I think that I may have something for you. But I need to know whether I can count on you. You can’t talk about what you’ll be doing for us. Got it, kid?”“Yes, Mister Izzy,” I responded. You can count on me.” I pinched my lips with my fingers to indicate that I clearly understood the rules of the game working for him.”“OK. First of all, do you know how to drive a Model TT Ford truck? It’s a one-ton job built on a Model T chassis.”“Sure, I know how,” I replied. “I’ve driven them all over town.” This, of course, was a lie. I had never even been inside an automobile or truck. You need to understand that this was my first job interview and I was trying to put a very positive spin on it to please.” “Good! Put this inside your pocket,” he said as he slid a small piece of paper over the top of his desk in my direction. “It’s the address of a warehouse I own on Atwater very close to the river. Report there at one o’clock early tomorrow morning. I have a little job for you.”“I guess you’ll will be wanting me to move stock around in the warehouse? That’s perfect. I am very strong. You’ll be pleased at what I can do.” “No, I have something else in mind for you, kid. I want you to drive a truck across the river to Windsor, pick up some crates with merchandise, bring them back to my warehouse, and help unload them. That’s about it, job-wise.”“Uh, Mr. Izzy,” I responded in an earnest tone, “probably a dumb question. But, how can I drive a truck across water?”“You’re beginning to make me a little nervous, kid. You may not be as smart as your father said. The river is always frozen at this time of the year­­­­­­. Some of my men will have walked across the ice earlier in the day and marked out the best route to Windsor with a double row of kerosene lanterns. All you need to do is drive the truck over and back with the cargo, staying between the lit-up lanterns.”“We’ll see you tonight,” Izzy continued. The job interview was apparently over and so I left his office, trying to think about how I could learn to drive a Ford truck in a few hours. I headed toward home, looking for any unattended trucks or cars on the street.“Luckily, I found a Ford truck parked on the street near my house and borrowed it for a short spin. I checked out the pedals and such in the passenger compartment—very confusing! Trial and error was often my teacher so I turned on the ignition and took off, gears grinding. My own personal driving school. After about 20 minutes, I got the hang of it and was in total control.“To tell you the truth, I was scared shitless about the whole deal. I was 'sort of' ready for the job, perhaps forgetting that a truck loaded with cases of whiskey which could jostle and veer off course. And I also was supposed to make the trip without a map and on slippery ice. I immediately began to think that my future cloudy at best but what the Hell? My fate was now in the hands of the Purples.“I arrived at the warehouse in the dead of night as instructed by Izzy. The truck was in the warehouse surrounded by a few of the gang members. They wished me good luck, smirking at the same time. I started the motor and began to drive slowly across the frozen surface of the river toward Windsor, skidding as I went. “The lanterns, as promised, were mostly in place but the route was confusing. Fog was a big problem. The truck also skidded around a lot on the icy surface but I eventually made it to the Canadian side where I was met by a another hard-looking crew who loaded the truck with fifty cases of Canadian whiskey. “I was ready for the return trip. The crew waved me goodbye and pointed me in the right direction where I could just see a few sparkling Detroit lights. That’s when things began ‘to go south’ which is another way of saying that they turned to shit. I say this with a hint of irony because Windsor is actually south of Detroit. “I knew I was in big trouble about three-quarters of the way across the frozen surface as I headed into a particularly dense fog cloud hugging the ice. I couldn’t see much at all so I was hanging my head out the driver’s window as I drove. Also, some of the lanterns had run out of kerosene so my route was no longer obvious. I continued to steer in the direction of Detroit but must have somehow veered off the path. When I was somewhat close to the Detroit shore line, the ice became thinner. I then heard the surface ice begin to crack. Oh my God!“The right front tire broke through the ice and, shortly afterwards, the left one. The truck then started to sink quickly in the frigid water. I was able to push open the door on my side, jump out onto more solid ice, and sprint toward one of the lanterns that was still lit. Just made it to the thicker part of the surface in time and walked toward the shore. I glanced over my shoulder to see the truck disappearing into the cold and murky frigid water, whiskey cargo and all. A few bubbles appeared on the water surface. Woops! A very bad ending for my first job. And perhaps even worse.”***“I made my way to an all-night Greek diner I knew in the neighborhood, running as fast as I could. I had some loose change in my pocket so I called my dad at home on the pay phone in the restaurant. I totally panicked and knew that I was now a marked man. I thought, in my panic, that perhaps my dad would be able to come up with a solution to get me out of the mess. How in the world could I set things right with Izzy?“It was about five o’clock in the wee hours when my dad, bleary-eyed, still wearing his pajama bottoms, walked into the joint. I was sitting way back in a booth. I kept my head down but motioned gently to him to join me. He sat down beside me and said: “Why all of the mystery, boychik? Why the emergency call and meet-up in this crummy joint? What’s up with you?”“I’m in big trouble, dad. My life is a disaster and my future is doubtful.” I went on to describe for him what had happened with my first, so-called, job since my visit with Izzy. The warehouse and the drive across the ice. Bringing back the truckload of booze. The thin ice and my escape from the sinking truck. I left out the part about pinching the Model T for my first driving lesson. That would have really pissed him off.”He buried his face in his hands and softly moaned. Then finally looked up at me and said: “This situation calls for some creative thinking.”He continued, speaking softly with his lips close to my ear. “Let me think about this for a minute. What does Izzy care about besides money and kicking people around? There’s got to be something we can do.”Finally, his eyes lit up and he said: “I’ve got it. His family is the third thing he cares about, especially his youngest named Rachel. She’s about sixteen. You’ve got to find her, chat her up, and tell her you are crazy about her. Izzy knows that it won’t be easily to get her married with her looks and, especially, because of the reputation of his family. He will think twice about directing any violence toward a boyfriend of his Rachel.”***“I asked around the neighborhood and learned that Rachel Bernstein went to the same high school as me. I was waiting outside the front door of the school the next day after class as she came out. “Everybody was right about her looks—she was no beauty queen, but this was an emergency. I needed to ditch my normal standards. I approached her, coming up from behind, and matched her stride. She was not sure what was happening so she glanced my way nervously. She was probably thinking to herself: Who is this jerk-off and what does he want with me?“Hi Rachel,” I said somewhat breathlessly. “I seen you around and want to know you better. You’re really good looking. My name’s Jake.”She slowed her pace, turned her head, and scanned me head to toe, like a hungry tiger stalking a small antelope in Africa. “Are you­­ the Jake I been hearing so much about as in: Dump a Truck into the Detroit River with a Big Load of My Father’s Hooch Jake?”“Yep! You got it right. That’s exactly me.”“And what exactly do you want from me, Mr. Lame Jake? Are you about to ask whether I can save your sorry ass?”“You took the words out of my mouth, Rachel. To be very frank, your dad is unhappy with me and I thought that he might be able to overlook our small misunderstanding, particularly if the two of us were seriously keeping company.”Rachel replied: “You’re not bad looking Jake but I’ll need some time to see if you meet my lofty standards. However, I am willing to tell my dad this evening at dinner that we’re friends, He doesn’t want me or my sisters to have anything to do with the rackets so he will be happy that I’m not dating one of the bums in his crew. Where should I tell him you are headed, profession-wise, after you begin to shave?”“Podiatry,” I replied. “I had no idea what that was but I seen it on a sign in the neighborhood and the career seemed to be associated with some degree of prestige.”“OK, Dr. Podiatrist” she replied. “You look like you would be able to master the anatomy of the human foot although you don’t seem to have known which truck pedal to push to haul your ass back from Windsor.” She then smiled at me as she picked up her pace, gave me a delicate wave, and turned the corner, heading for home.***“I was walking in the neighborhood a couple of days later when a long, black Packard pulled up to the curb beside me. The rear window lowered and Izzy poked his head out. He motioned with his hand for me to come closer. I contemplated running away but he was smiling so I approached the car and started to wring my hands. I then began to chatter nervously.“I’m so sorry, Mr. Izzy, for what I done on the river. I lied to you when I said that I knew how to drive and it was so foggy and I got onto thin ice and I almost drowned.”“Forget about it, kid. I’m not angry with you anymore. My boys were able to get a winch cable around the truck from the shoreline and recover the booze, which is all I really care about. The truck was stolen so I don’t really miss it. My daughter Rachel says that the two of you are friends. Forget you tried to do a job for us. We’re now square.” He raised the window and the car abruptly pulled away from the curb.”***“I wasn’t able to get into podiatry school. One of the requirements was a high school diploma which I lacked and didn’t know how to pinch one. Remarkably and surprisingly, my uncle left this cigar store to me, perhaps to clear his conscience on his death bed. “My wife Rachel and I (yes, Rachel Bernstein) raised three kids who went to the University of Michigan. I always keep a flotation vest in the trunk of my car in case I ever had an urge to drive across the river to Windsor for a shot or two of whiskey.”***“How you likin’ that Cuban cigar, my friend? I said to my customer. ""I got plenty more in the humidor?”
","August 12, 2023 17:25","[[{'Amanda Lieser': 'Hey Bruce,\nWhat an interesting story within a story. You captured a beautiful time that has now left the world behind, but at the same time, has always remained. I loved this piece and thought your dialogue was superb. I also loved the happy ending, dear Rachel. How sweet!! Nice work!!', 'time': '17:30 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Amanda, again, thanks for your interest in my work and very useful comment. I am glad you like the character of Rachel. I did not start off having her play such an important role but she just evolved when I was writing the dialogue as being much more interesting.', 'time': '18:20 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Amanda, again, thanks for your interest in my work and very useful comment. I am glad you like the character of Rachel. I did not start off having her play such an important role but she just evolved when I was writing the dialogue as being much more interesting.', 'time': '18:20 Sep 08, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Helen A Smith': 'This was a fun story Bruce. It was interesting to start with, but once you got into the main part of the story, you had me hooked. \nI liked the character of Rachel and was relieved things turned out well here. Nice touch that he married her.', 'time': '15:41 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Helen, thanks for your generous comment. I agree with you that Rachel is one of the most appealing characters I have created. Glad that I was able to hook you with my little yarn.', 'time': '02:10 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Helen, thanks for your generous comment. I agree with you that Rachel is one of the most appealing characters I have created. Glad that I was able to hook you with my little yarn.', 'time': '02:10 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Vid Weeks': 'great yarn', 'time': '20:32 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Love a good gangster story! :)\n\n“I was able to put the incident in the view rear mirror with some effort” — should read ‘rear view mirror’.', 'time': '17:07 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Bruce Friedman': 'J.D., thanks for reading my story and thanks for the correction. I will change it now.', 'time': '18:07 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, {'J. D. Lair': 'Anytime my friend!', 'time': '19:00 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'J.D., thanks for reading my story and thanks for the correction. I will change it now.', 'time': '18:07 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'J. D. Lair': 'Anytime my friend!', 'time': '19:00 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'J. D. Lair': 'Anytime my friend!', 'time': '19:00 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""He was lucky he didn't have to sleep with the fishes.\n\nCheck some punctuation problems in first part of story."", 'time': '13:25 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Thanks, Mary. Appreciate your input. Will try to clean up the punctuation.', 'time': '15:39 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Bruce Friedman': 'Thanks, Mary. Appreciate your input. Will try to clean up the punctuation.', 'time': '15:39 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,cbmpfb,Amelia’s Party,Ela Mikh,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/cbmpfb/,/short-story/cbmpfb/,Fiction,0,"['Horror', 'Science Fiction', 'Urban Fantasy']",14 likes,"
The peacefulness of a perfect Sunday morning was rippled by the sounds of the large tracks driving through the sleepy community. The revving motors passed tree-lined streets waking up the neighbors and leaving a cloud of unpleasant dust behind the heavy cars. The trucks didn’t calm down until they reached the cul-de-sac at the end of the main street and got lost behind the massive gates.
“Another sucker,” sighed a few onlookers who cared enough to drag
themselves toward the windows to see what all the commotion was about. 
Some started placing bets among each other “Eight tracks? They got
money! They’ll get bored here in six months maximum!”
Some just shook their heads before going back to bed.
Some decided to start their day early grabbing a quick cup of
coffee before coming outside to throw curious glances in the direction of newcomers while pretending that they couldn’t care less.
The noise and the subtle odor of the running tracks hung in the
air for the most part of the day. The sun already rolled behind the towering hills darkening the sky above the peaceful row of houses when the last truck finally left. After a whole day of loudness, the silence felt strange, even omniscient. Everyone settled in for the night, wondering what the next day will bring. 
On Monday morning, residents heard a strange noise that was not
common for their quiet perfectly manicured street. The sound rhythmically echoed through the empty street dying out somewhere far in the hills. People curiously leaned towards the windows looking for the source of the disturbance.
To their disbelief, the sound was coming from a pair of sneakers that hit the ground with every step their owner took as she steadily jogged past the houses on both sides of the street. Everyone here knew each other so this couldn’t have been anyone but the new resident. Disappointingly, no one was able to describe her accurately.
Some said she was dressed in a pink suit and white cap with long
black hair.
Some argued she was wearing stylish blue leggings with a white top
and large sunglasses even though the morning was on the gloomier side.
Some were certain she was dressed in all black including the
sneakers equipped with high soles which was the cause for the noisy steps that announced her arrival to the area.
In reality, none of that was true. The new neighbor was in fact on
her morning run dressed in simple gray sports pants with an old t-shirt that, in its days of glory, displayed some music group but now almost faded into an unrecognizable blob. She had light hair that was tied in a high knot but it was hard to tell the exact color as she moved past the houses like a blur. She made a circle before she came back towards her bulky gate. She glanced over her shoulder squinting her dark eyes at the curious neighbors that
were popping out of their houses. Just as she suspected, she was the talk of the town… Well, at least on this street which was fine by her. She wasn't that ambitious. Maybe this would end up being a good place to stay for a while. So far, she liked the scenery. 
Picturesque hills encircled this community on three sides giving
up the fourth to the large freshwater lake. Peaceful. Stunning. She pushed the heavy front doors which opened with surprising ease. The house was the largest on the block with a magnificent 180-degree view of the lake. The water-facing wall was mostly made out of glass which was the feature that sold her on this property. Once she saw those floor-to-ceiling windows that were framing the
most stunning sunset, she was certain this could be it. 
She walked upstairs slowly taking it all in. Everything was
already in its place giving an allusion that she lived here for many years. Every item that was brought in found its place on the multitude of shelves that the house offered her. She glanced from the top landing at the kitchen that stood grand and inviting on the side of her panoramic view. She had no use for it but it will come in handy for visitors, which will come soon enough. She
was certain of it.
The first doorbell rang just a few hours later proving her right.
She sighed preparing herself for the first interaction with the neighbors before putting on a welcoming smile and opening the door. 
“Hi!” The woman standing in front of her with some sort of a dish
of something she would never eat had a friendly round face. She was quite short which was emphasized by a very tall man standing next to her. Her voice, just like her bigger-than-life smile, reeked of pretense friendliness. “I’m Maya, this is my hubby, Allan. We wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood!”
As hungry as Maya and Allan were to see their neighbor's face,
they couldn’t quite make it out while she still stood in the shadow of her door, not inviting them to come in. They could see that she was still wearing a hat making it impossible for them to even figure out the color of her hair. 
“Hello and thank you. That is very nice of you,” they heard a low
voice that sounded pleasantly friendly but not welcoming. “I’m Amelia.” She accepted the dish quickly out of Maya’s hand, thanking them again.
“It's a casserole! I made it this morning so it should be a breeze
to warm it up again. You can just…”
“Thank you,” politely but firmly interrupted Amelia. “I’m sure I
will enjoy it. If you forgive me, I’m still unpacking and in the middle of things so …”
She was obviously letting them know to beat it. Maya stepped back,
visibly disappointed. It would have been such a win to be the first
to get inside the house that was always such a mystery. “Of Course! Well, my Allan here is quite handy, aren’t you honey?” she nudged him with an elbow getting a dry nod out of her tall man. “So, if you ever need any help, don’t hesitate. We are the yellow house right there on the corner.” She pointed at something behind her getting an acknowledging nod from Amelia before she closed her door.
Amelia tossed the dish straight in the trash on her way back up.
She watched Maya walking away glancing at the house over the shoulder wondering how long it would be before Maya runs to tell the others. Clearly, this was the busybody of the hood and she turned out to be right once again. It was amusing to see how her visitor ran from one house to another spreading the news.
“Don’t they have a block chat of sorts? Or at least use the phone,
you fool!” 
However, it was obvious that Maya preferred face-to-face
interaction. Well, maybe it’s good. After all, it may play into her
hand, Amelia decided. The stream of neighbors continued with small intervals for most of the day. After the first five, Amelia stopped answering the door, watching with amusement as they came and went leaving their plates, baskets, and boxes at her
door. Everyone followed the same pattern of ringing the doorbell a few times before knocking and then looking around uncertainly. It was clear that her neighbors were dying to see what the house looked like inside but they were even more curious about who she was. Well, they would have to wait a while before she can present herself to them in all her glory. 
Amelia chuckled. Glory! Once upon a time maybe but now… well perhaps she will be able to reinstate it here. All the signs pointed to that so time will tell. After all, she had nothing but time on her hands. She ran her fingers through the intricate decorations surrounding her staircase. Yep, this place will do for a while.  
The second night since Amelia arrived was quiet but residents
couldn’t sleep for some reason. 
Some woke up in the middle of the night bothered by a feeling that was foreign to them after living here for so many years in
peace and harmony.
Some kept pacing around their rooms in an unexplainable worry
about their future.
Some ended up being awake for the rest of the night feeling
unsettled and unsafe in their houses for the first time ever. 
When the day’s light broke the darkness in the lake’s water, most
of the people in the neighborhood felt exhausted and drained. Many fell asleep relieved that the horrible night was over, completely missing how their new neighbor went for her run around the neighborhood smiling to herself about the success of the last night. Everything was going according to plan. This house and this community of middle-aged to aging adults was definitely the perfect place for it. She will let them rest for the next few days.
A week later, when residents started to fall back into their
routine that was briefly interrupted by Amelia’s move, they got a new surprise in the form of a colorful individualized invitation. Turned out, it came to every mailbox on the street. 
“How did she know our names?” They were exclaiming right and left, opening the golden envelope with their names on it. The expensive-looking invitation emitted a slight but pleasant fragrance that made everyone smile. The handwriting was elaborately decorated by a few cute squiggles here and there offering them to come to Amelia’s birthday party this upcoming Saturday.
Gifts were not required but appreciated. There was also a hint that the host prepared little surprises for her new neighbors which immediately spiked the interest of most residents of the community. The dress code was stated as dressy casual which immediately triggered a haze in the female population as
they started ripping through their closets with old-as-world exclamations “I have nothing to wear.”
A slight smile touched Amelia’s lips as she watched her neighbors'
cars leave one after another with women rushing to the local mall in a perfect excuse to shop, dragging their unsuspecting significant others along for the ride with them. Now, not only did they have something to look forward to on the weekend, but they also got a perfect occasion to leave the commonness of their houses and have lunches out. It’s amazing how predictable humans are in their behaviors with a few exceptions of course. But those are the ones that most likely would skip her party anyway and would be worthy of it. She stepped away from the window, stretching. She would need to get some help to get the house in order. Yep, this is going to be fun even for her. It’s been a while since she hosted
so many of them. 
On Saturday evening one could see a steady stream of people coming out of their houses, walking over to the largest house at the end of the street. All of them were dressed up buzzing with excitement about the evening ahead of them. Maya was ahead of that chain chatting with a few neighbors. 
“Have you seen any catering trucks coming over?” she suddenly
wondered. The neighbors all shook their heads suddenly realizing that they haven’t seen Amelia go on her run or drive anywhere since the invitations came.
There were no visitors to her mansion either so the question did linger – how was she pulling off hosting so many people? The added mystique of the upcoming event only increased everyone’s excitement as they gathered by the gates finding them surprisingly locked. 
A few moments later, the balcony doors on the second floor
vibrated lightly before opening widely, letting through a slender woman in a long tight dress and a large matching hat. The crowd by the gate gave an “oh” and “ah” sounds hungrily taking in the details of Amelia’s wardrobe.
Some thought her dress was made out of red leather. 
Some were convinced it was a blue silk with a large hat that was
trimmed with the same material
Some could argue Amelia’s ensemble was white and silver.
None was right and Amelia was watching them from the height of her balcony lovingly stroking the sides of her black leather dress thinking how wonderful it felt to be in her body where she could allow herself to wear anything she liked. Even now.
“Welcome my friends,” she called out to them with a wave of her
arm. The gates opened as on command and the buzzing crowd poured into the front yard and through the opened front doors into the house. She gave them a few minutes to spread around before Amelia started down the stairs toward her guests. They all looked up again impatiently anxious to finally see who she was. Amelia was coming down slowly savoring every moment still looking down
with her large hat covering her face and her head. Never before was she able to get to this point this fast – let’s have some fun.
“I’m so glad you were able to join me today at my new humble
residence. I’m already feeling like one of us and hope you all will feel
equally at home here. Please make yourself comfortable.”
With the last words, she stopped on the lower landing, now just a
few feet from her guests. She couldn’t resist her past habits and removed her hat with a theatrical pause before she lifted her head and looked straight at the people in front of her. She heard a familiar sigh of surprise that rolled through the room and died out hitting her tall ceiling. 
Amelia stood in front of them with her long gray hair falling from
her shoulders down her back in a perfect stylish wave. Her face still glowed with the signs of the former beauty but the little wrinkles here and there mercilessly gave out the reality of her age. But her eyes – everyone was drawn to her large dark youthfully sparkling eyes that looked around with a sense of royal dignity and attracted with a magnetism that was impossible to fight. 
“I am not big on parties, you know,” she continued with a slight
smile in the corner of her perfectly lined lips, “but today is a special
occasion. When one’s turning ninety, you should be grateful for such a long and fruitful life. I’m blessed to be in good health and spirit so I hope to share my joy with all of you tonight!”
The room remained silent with many looking at her with their
mouths wide open. Such a reaction was typical and expected so Amelia walked down the remainder of the stairs pleased that she still had this effect on people and her “touch” didn’t fade over the eyes. When was the last time she did something like this? Twenty? Thirty years? Too long! She really should reward herself more frequently. She deserves it. 
As guests spread out, they started noticing beautifully dressed
trays with rare delicatessens here and there. The bar by the large kitchen island was also covered in pre-opened bottles with a variety that could satisfy even the most demanding tastes. Before long, the noise of excitement filled the house along with the clinking of the glasses and silverware. Most still wondered how Amelia managed to pull this off without any visible deliveries but after all, she did just move in. Perhaps, the supplies were brought in at that time. 
The toasts toward the host were coming up from time to time. Amelia raised her glass smiling politely at everyone but not saying much.  
Some felt like she remained withdrawn from the crowd still
standing close to the stairs.
Some could swear that she mingled and talked to everyone in the
room making them all feel welcome.
Some argued that Amelia disappeared altogether and showed up at
the bottom of the stairs only when the sun started to set over the lake.
One thing everyone agreed on was that when the sky started to
change color, the blinds on the large windows started to slowly slide up unveiling the spectacular view of the golden and red colored clouds that were reflecting in the perfectly still lake. As if on command, the large door opened up to the sides inviting everyone to the back deck. 
“I hope you all would join me outside for a special surprise,”
announced Amelia suddenly appearing next to the doors. She waved her visitors over walking out and inviting them to follow her. 
As it got darker and the first stars started to come through,
suddenly there was a loud bang that made everyone flinch but it immediately changed into an exhilarating roar when thousands of fireworks lit up the sky in a multitude of colors and shapes.
“Amelia, this is beyond anything I have ever seen before!” exclaimed Maya unconsciously grabbing at Amelia's arm while still gawking at the sight above her. When she didn’t hear a response Maya turned to look at Amelia and her smile instantly faded. She opened her mouth wide in horror but no sound came out. Amelia was pleased that this annoying busybody was the first one to come to her. She slowly opened all of her eight arms giving Maya a big hug bringing her closer and closer until they became one. Phew, it felt good to
finally stretch all her extremities and have a good meal. She looked around while others one by one fell down in a stupor-like state. This will do. Yep, she will be able to stay here for a while, maybe much longer than her previous place. It’s nice to be able to celebrate her ninetieth birthday among friends. Once Again!
","August 12, 2023 22:35","[[{'Vid Weeks': 'Loved Amelia, thanks for sharing', 'time': '20:42 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'That was a fun, dark, chilling tale, Ela. Amelia the alien played her part quite well, and the ending, with horror and revelation, felt so natural. You did a fine job with this one, my friend. Very engaging.\n\nCheers!', 'time': '11:44 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ela Mikh': 'Thank you! I always look forward to your comments. Amelia was a fun character to imagine but most of all - I just LOVED her house :)', 'time': '15:52 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Ela Mikh': 'Thank you! I always look forward to your comments. Amelia was a fun character to imagine but most of all - I just LOVED her house :)', 'time': '15:52 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Party flavors.', 'time': '16:10 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Ela Mikh': 'Tam-Tam-Tam :)', 'time': '21:50 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Ela Mikh': 'Tam-Tam-Tam :)', 'time': '21:50 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,76ttj1,The Album of Eventual Memories,Jonathan Page,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/76ttj1/,/short-story/76ttj1/,Fiction,0,"['Mystery', 'Fiction', 'Crime']",13 likes,"
As a reporter, what you call a coincidence, I recognize as an anonymous tip in want of a headline, and the persistent appearance of the eighty-something bohemian-looking Madame Lieberman in the background of all of the photos for my most groundbreaking stories of the last year demanded an explanation. Covering the news can be a bit like chasing after the wind, there’s just so much of it that it can be a real chore to distinguish the choice gusts from the beastly drafts, and when you do happen upon a first-rate breeze it’s absolute murder to bottle it up before it gets away. You must be part hound dog and part blood hound to make a living of it. Breaking a newsworthy story requires a knack for being in the right place at the right time and equally as much, a good nose for stories. From a very young age, I had both. But unlike many of my classmates, what I didn’t have was money. I relied on ingenuity and skepticism instead. Luckily, I managed to patch together some grants and scholarships, which allowed me to attend Princeton, where I still live. But the only audience that matters to me is Dolores Bellamy, who I have been trying to convince to marry me since our eating club days—though she spends most of her time in New York City now struggling through various Off-Broadway productions and trying to make her big break as an actress.The Coffee Club had wood paneling with student photographs on the walls. Behind the counter was a black chalk board menu with handwritten selections in multi-colored pastel chalk. The lighting was dimmed, and some Harry Potter-styled ambiance music was playing. The tic-tac-toe cross hatch styled windows on the French doors faced out to the clean campus lawns, freshly coated with fall leaves in yellows, reds, and browns. The air outside was crisp with the smell of pine, the fruity wisps of chrysanthemums with hints of menthol, and the musty relish of damp earth, cedar, and dewy grass. Inside the coffee house, the mixture of brewed beans, frothed milk, syrup, and cinnamon pervaded the room. And the students spoke in excited tones full of energy and enthusiasm for the start of the semester.The room was an enchanting place to get immersed in a story. Some fall specials were highlighted on the board: “Caramel Apple,” “Honey Cardamom,” and, of course, “Pumpkin Spice Latte.” Against this backdrop, I sat back in a padded leather chair in the corner, and Sook came over to disturb my solitude with some friendly repartee.“Sook, look at this,” I said, pointing to where this woman was standing in the background of each one of my photographs—in one, right by the scene of a perp walk of a suspect, in another close enough behind Cillian Murphy to give him a peck on the cheek, in another at the dorms where a student was being arrested for a hit-and-run.“Oh, Mr. Quinn, what are you doing following around this old lady?” “That’s Mr. Finn O’Quinn to you,” I joked. Then continued, “that’s the thing, Sook. I haven’t any idea who she is.”“Oh, come on Mr. Quinn. You know you are in a situatonship with this woman, why don’t you just shoot your shot already!”“No, Sook, be serious—was that even English?—I’ve never seen this woman in my life. These are stories about a dead Chinese woman found in Mercer Park, a land use meeting for expansion of the college grounds, Professor Mulvaney’s sign theft fiasco, and I can go on, but there’s nothing connecting these stories whatsoever.”“I know the lady. If you want the deets, you could have just asked me.”“Sook, you are the Editor of the Daily Princetonian. Is it perhaps possible for you to speak in the Queen’s English, as opposed to using that pidgin talk?”“No shot.” Quinn was a half-Japanese, half-Italian mutt. Her eyes laughed and her cheeks blushed as she teased me. Quinn was curious and fastidiously detail oriented, but in complete contradiction to this, her personality was calm, relaxed, and fun-loving.“Fine, fine – now who is this woman?”“That’s Madame Lieberman. She lives over at 104 Library Place. In those cute old buildings off the main grounds.” “I may have to pay her a visit in order to get to the bottom of this.”“She comes here about two times a week for muffins and tea. I think she’s a widow. A retired shrink or something. And I think her late husband Dewey is an architect.”At this moment, Jim Pritt stormed in like a man possessed, pulling open the French double doors with considerable effort and standing in the foyer with his hands on his hips. Jim was an older lawyer in his fifties who had silver side-parted hair, some gray stubble on his prominent round chin, and who always wore a suit, usually light brown, with a starched white shirt and cotton tie—todays was green—and who carried himself formally, but with a relaxed, cozy formality that gave off the vibe that he never took himself that seriously. Jimmy was one of the brightest men I knew, but he was the kind of natural politician who saw every interaction as a way to win someone over and find common ground. That being said, he did have his quirks.“We have a situation on our hands Finny—they are shutting down the Panera,” Jimmy said.“Where will you work?” I asked, laughing inside at the thought of the former Princeton Class President, who had his own law firm, working several days a week from the local Panera Bread on Nassau Street.“That’s not the point. This is a bridge too far. Shutting down a Panera? What will come of our civilization?” Jimmy responded. I had to admit that as Panera’s go, it was a very nice one. But I didn’t share Finn’s enthusiasm for the cause.“You are an industrious fellow, and rich. Speak to the owner. Buy out the franchisee. Figure it out. Now, here, I’ve got something else for you.” And I pointed the photos out to Jimmy.After introducing Finn to my present conundrum, he stared at me blankly and said, “you are flirting with a ‘likeness and image’ lawsuit here from the number of times you’ve photographed this poor lady without attribution.” “Right. Maybe so. But the question is – how could this woman have been present when each of these stories was breaking? I have sources on campus, in the police, in the government, at the Prosecutor’s Office, and in a dozen other places. I was following these stories. And I had advanced warning when arrests would happen or when the vote would be for a new building, or when filming would happen on campus. How could this woman have known to be at all those places? And, more importantly, why was she there?”“Let’s look at the operative facts and see if we can hunt down a clue. There must be a common thread. Tell me about these stories.”“There’s this story here about a visiting sixty-nine-year-old Chinese woman, Ms. Ling, found dead from a hit-and-run on the side of Princeton Road near Mercer Park on her first visit to the States. I got a scoop that a student on campus was being arrested—and there she was when the police walked him out.”“Alright, this woman may have an in at the detective’s bureau,” Jimmy offered.I reviewed the backstory for the next photo: “Then there’s this story about Chainsaw Productions. A prominent political consultant, Mike Cad, had undertaken two murders for hire, and was suspected in several others, including a stabbing of the Sheridans, a connected political couple, which was covered up with a house fire and remains unsolved. Cad had been holding murder mystery horror shows called Slaughter Camps—an immersive and electrifying experience—where the theme and plot of the murder mystery shows was a play-by-play of the actual murders. He was picked up by the F.B.I. during one of these overnight shows, and I was there to break the story. Madame Lieberman was there.”“Self-snitching! That is certainly one of the most interesting cases of outing oneself I’ve ever heard. But wouldn’t that also fall under the theory that she has a contact in law enforcement?” Jimmy said, reiterating his prior point.“Fair enough. But what about this one? They were filming the movie Oppenheimer at the Institute for Advanced Study in April and I was doing a retrospective piece about Oppenheimer—got a shot for the piece with Cillian Murphy. There’s Ms. Lieberman close enough in the background to kiss him on the cheek. The filming date and location were undisclosed unless you pulled the permit.”“Did you say Ms. Lieberman? I knew her husband Dewey,” Jimmy said. “Jimmy! You know her?”“I knew Dewey. Never met the old lady—goes by Madame now, I heard. She lives just down the block. Maybe she walks the grounds daily, and just so happened to be passing by when you did your cover shot?”“Maybe. But what about this one. It concerns the Cloak and Dagger bookshop hosting an escape room experience called Crime Scene. A Russian Spy named Boris Chernila was picked up by the FBI for having stolen an alarming number of pen sets from The Fountain Pen Hospital in Manhattan. She’s right there!! Just off to the side of the lawn when they are perp walking the pen thief out!”“I know the Cloak and Dagger. But again, this just shows she has some kind of connection to law enforcement.”“But these are wholly disparate divisions doing the investigations.”“Still, there could be a common informant or something.”“I’ve got to Jimmy. Please pay my tab with Sook. I’ll see you tomorrow.”* * *When I rang Madame Lieberman’s doorbell, she appeared promptly, unlatched the bolt, and waved me inside, saying, “Right this way,” and immediately proceeded to walk me through the front foyer, back through the kitchen, opened the sliding glass doors to the patio, and said, “go on and take a seat and I’ll be right out. I’m just going to fetch us some tea.”Madame Doris Lieberman was short and plump, with a blank and welcoming face that seemed to reflect back your own intentions. She wore a head wrap, a hammered sterling silver curved bib necklace with lapis lazuli ornamentation, blue opal earrings, and silver and blue bracelets and cuffs on her arms.I sat down in a lawn chair on a stone patio made with quarried bluestone, which had an elegant look against the carefully manicured garden and lawns. The photo album was already sitting there out on the glass topped patio table. Madame Lieberman brought out an old oriental tea pot and small traditional teacups, with a wooden washing board and pitcher of hot water besides, all meticulously laid out on a serving tray. She poured us each a lovely jasmine tea that had hints of ginger root and tasted lovely with a mix of bitter and sweet with a hint of powdery ester like the taste of flavorless Big Chew bubble gum. While she was pouring the tea, I noticed that she wore her husband’s class ring on her left ring finger, but her wedding band and engagement ring were missing.The photo album had a black dyed sheepskin cover with an ornate gilded floral border, plus ornate stamping with the title “Eventual Memories” on the front. “I’ve got a few questions for you before we begin,” she said, and I supposed she wanted to know how I discovered her involvement in these stories.“Alright, very well,” I said.“Do you believe in love, Mr. O’Quinn?” she asked, and I noted that I hadn’t told her my name.“I fail to see the relevance, I am afraid,” I quipped, a little put off by the prying question.“Oh, dear, I don’t know what could be more relevant.”“How so?” I asked.“My dear late husband Dewey was a Mason. On admission to the Entered Apprentice degree, they ask an initiate if they believe in God. If one answers ‘no’ they are denied admission, seeing as it is a secret society where initiates are sworn to an oath of secrecy, the oath is not worth anything unless one believes in an almighty judge. So, for his lodge members, belief in God is the prerequisite for keeping one’s word.”“I see,” I said, once again failing to see the relevance.“Now, Mr. O’Quinn, I have been expecting you for some time. But before I reveal to you my secrets, I must determine if you are a worthy initiate. Only, to my mind, the Masons have it all wrong. It is not whether one believes in something, but whether one knows the meaning of true devotion that makes one deserving of trust. One will not forsake that which they love. And so, I ask you again Mr. O’Quinn, have you ever been in love?”“Well then, yes, most assuredly, I have, once, been in love.”“Then, I’d ask that you swear on your lover’s name that you will keep these secrets I am about to tell you.”“Very well then,” I said, a little annoyed by all this pretext and superstition, “I swear on Dolores Bellamy that I will keep your secrets.”“Thank you, Mr. O’Quinn,” she said, her lips drawing up to her cheeks in a pleasing smile, “then we can begin.”“You said you’ve been expecting me for quite some time?” I asked.“Why yes, my dear. I saw your face in one of my photographs. In fact, it is the very last one in the album. And I’m afraid I won’t be here to see how this story ends. You see, there are only two photographs left in the album.”“Can you show me these photographs?” She opened the album.“You see the photos—well, the polaroids—are all here, and each one has a date at the bottom.”“Did you say polaroids? That’s impossible. Polaroids are developed instantly, right as the pictures are taken. Someone would have to actually be present for that to work.”“Like I said, Mr. O’Quinn, I do not know how the photo album works or where the pictures came from. I just find the location and go there on the date in question.”“But how did you come to own this photo album?”“When Dewey passed on, there was a clause in his Will that said to take a key he left with his lawyer in an envelope and go to a safety deposit box in a bank in town, and it was there. The cover was locked with a key and the album had been there in the safety deposit box since about 1980, a little over forty years.”“Absurd! Madame Lieberman, if I may, these pictures are all taken after that photo album was locked away, granted, you might have doctored them after retrieving it from the lock box, but that doesn’t change the fact that its physically impossible for those photos to have been placed in that album some forty years ago!”“It is stranger than that. I’m quite sorry to tell you, Mr. O’Quinn that the next photograph is of my gravestone, and the date is not a week from today. So, you could say, I am living on borrowed time.”“What is this secret then you’ve been hiding.”“Well Mr. O’Quinn, I had a daughter, you see. With my one true love. I was already betrothed to poor Dewey, but I took a trip to Sicily to have the child and placed her in foster care—not far away—just down the road, with the Bellamys. And as I suspected, you know her, Mr. O’Quinn, Dolores is my daughter.”“What?”“And you will be there, I presume, as you have been in all these other photographs, to hunt down my killer.”“Then what is the last photo?”“It is taken backstage at a play, and you are there delivering flowers to my dear sweet Dolores after the show. I guess it will be up to you, my dear, how that story ends. Here, I want you to have this. Won’t be of much more use to me now.”I reluctantly took the old photo album and brought it back with me to the Coffee Club, where I left it in Sook’s capable hands, while I headed home to finish up my story.As I was walking out, I noticed that Madame Lieberman had an identical, but empty, photo album lying open on her kitchen island. Apparently, she had planned to start a new scrapbook, maybe containing some of her own photography. Which must have meant that her premonition of death was wrong. I was glad to see the old woman wasn’t totally unhinged after this uncanny, inexplicable mystery—the very reasonable explanation for which I would soon ferret out.* * *When I arrived at Madame Lieberman’s house, Chief Dave Buccarrelli was already inside.“Afraid the old woman is dead Quinn,” said Chief Buccarrelli.“Oh, Dear God! No! What happened?” I asked.“Looks to be another stabbing, but we were watching the old lady on our patrol routes, like you’d asked, and one of the patrolmen was happening by—”“Did he catch the killer—"" I interjected.“No, but when the commotion was breaking out, he turned on his lights and came in, so the perpetrator ran this time and never got a chance to destroy the evidence with a cover fire,” the Chief finished.Jimmy burst through the front doors saying, “What the devil is going on Finny?”“Would you mind accompanying me to New York City old friend, I’ll explain on the way, but I need to go to an Off-Broadway show to see about a girl—Dolores Bellamy.”
","August 14, 2023 03:04","[[{'Martin Ross': 'Amen — ingenuity and skepticism, and plugging away. I’m a sucker for a reporter story — was one myself for 33 years — and a terrific mystery. And I thought a little bit about “Chinatown” at the very satisfying climax. Great job of melding mystery and supernatural elements!', 'time': '15:29 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Martin!  I really like the reporter as a protagonist.  I wish I had more knowledge of how reporters really ply their craft.', 'time': '21:26 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, {'Martin Ross': 'You have a pretty good take on the mindset, what drives the journalist. My Mike Dodge doesn’t project a lot of his reportorial bearing in retirement, but like me, journalism taught him HOW to make connections and research information. I was a plugger — I learned a lot because it was necessary to asking the right questions and knowing what readers should know even if they might not think so. I think you did fine here.', 'time': '22:52 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Martin!  I really like the reporter as a protagonist.  I wish I had more knowledge of how reporters really ply their craft.', 'time': '21:26 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Martin Ross': 'You have a pretty good take on the mindset, what drives the journalist. My Mike Dodge doesn’t project a lot of his reportorial bearing in retirement, but like me, journalism taught him HOW to make connections and research information. I was a plugger — I learned a lot because it was necessary to asking the right questions and knowing what readers should know even if they might not think so. I think you did fine here.', 'time': '22:52 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Martin Ross': 'You have a pretty good take on the mindset, what drives the journalist. My Mike Dodge doesn’t project a lot of his reportorial bearing in retirement, but like me, journalism taught him HOW to make connections and research information. I was a plugger — I learned a lot because it was necessary to asking the right questions and knowing what readers should know even if they might not think so. I think you did fine here.', 'time': '22:52 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'Mystery. I got interrupted reading this so lost some of the train. Want to reread later.', 'time': '11:44 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Mary!', 'time': '21:25 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jonathan Page': 'Thanks Mary!', 'time': '21:25 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,qylsb7,Great Aunt Eva,Vid Weeks,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/qylsb7/,/short-story/qylsb7/,Fiction,0,"['Funny', 'Kids', 'Holiday']",12 likes,"
	It’s funny what you remember from your childhood. I certainly remember starchy, ancient Great Aunt Eva.
	I was always surprised we called her Eva; Her name was, after all, Evangeline and formality followed her, closely, at a trot, wherever she went. My first memory of her was at her door. She was quietly but firmly berating her maid who had transgressed some vital social code by answering my aunt’s door with her sleeves rolled up. The poor maid had presumably just come from washing dishes. The tirade seemed excessive, especially for rural Suffolk. I doubt, though, that the maid ever transgressed again. I was a small boy, grasping my mother’s hand, but it stuck in my mind. 
	When she visited us in Southampton the next year the sudden imposition of formality and strict adherence to manners made good sense to me. The appearance of good tablecloths for every meal, the correct use of cutlery, the conversational niceties made sense. No one said, “Oh mum, really?” or “Do we have to.” We were in the social trenches together.
	It was a hot summer that year. The holidays were one sunny, slow walking, idle day after the other. The bottoms of tee shirts were pulled up to wipe sweating brows every few steps. Shade was sought mechanically, without words. Bicycles were the preferred mode of transport, with built in breeze.
	So it was that Tim had left his splendidly new, three gear Raliegh on our front lawn to join us reading comics in the shade of the back shed. Comics supplied by Geoff, from four doors up the street, who seemed to have an endless supply. He would sit reading with his thumb in his mouth and the other hand twisting the front tuft of his hair for the entire day. The three of us had spent a number of shed shade, comic reading days that pavement melting summer.
	Really, it was when the call for tea came and Tim slouched to the front of the house that the Eva story really starts. Tim’s bike pump was gone. It was a shining, new, blue, metal pump.
	“I just got it; it was brand new.” He lamented with sadness and annoyance; shoulders slumped.
	It took relatively little, low level sleuthing to deduct that Nigel Beasley had taken it. The Roger’s kid from up the street saw him take it. Him and two accomplices. Now excitedly named by us, ‘The Beasley gang’.  A gang seeming a more worthy adversary. 
	I ran inside to tell the adults I had important business; an important contest of honour could not be postponed by tea. Even high tea on the best tablecloth with Great Aunt Eva in attendance and homemade Battenberg on the menu.  
	It took me by surprise when Great Aunt Eva sprang into action. Metaphorically sprang that is, she actually slowly eased herself out of the best armchair, which she had commandeered from my father on her arrival. First she confirmed the story.
	“This boy brazenly stole a new bicycle pump from your friend’s  bicycle, in front of witnesses, on the front lawn?”
	“Yea, I mean, yes.” Speak properly. 
	“Introduce me to this Rogers boy.”
	I wasn’t sure why she wanted to know more about it, but no one argued with Great Aunt Eva. She was led to ‘the Roger’s boy’. who confirmed the events.
	“Thank you dear and do you know where this Nigel boy lives?”
	“Ambleside, number ten I think”
	She turned to me and commanded, “Show me where Ambleside is”
	So we set off, a strange procession. Great Aunt Eva was a tall woman, upright and she walked at an impressive speed for her age. She wore some sort of well cut, floral, floaty dress which could easily have come from the nineteen twenties and she seemed immune to heat. A line of small children followed behind. We had to almost jog to keep up with her. I was in front, then Tim, the victim, Geoff and then the Roger’s kid and his small sister bringing up the rear. To my shame I can’t remember his sisters name, it was Lisa perhaps? She had long straight black hair and although she was skinny even as a kid I knew she was angelically pretty.
	Fate decreed we never even got as far as Coniston Road, certainly never reached Ambleside. We scarcely got to the end of Windermere Avenue. There it was that arch criminal Nigel and the Beasley gang were spotted riding toward us.
	“That’s him” Tim shouted. His comrades could sense trouble coming and rode on, abandoning him.
	My memory wants to tell me Great Aunt Eva, as she stepped into the road in front of Nigel, shouted, “Halt!” In truth it may have been, “Stop,” but it got results all the same. She grabbed his cycle’s handlebars.
	She questioned him, with what seemed like a simmering rage. “Did you steal this boys pump?” 
	He shrugged, grinning slightly.
	Tim had by now spotted the key exhibit for the prosecution and piped up, “That’s it, That’s my pump.” It had found a new home attached to the frame of Nigel’s bike.
	Great aunt Eva snatched the pump and let loose a scary lecture about decency at a pretty high volume. 
	Nigel made a foolish mistake. “Leave me alone, I’ll tell my mum about you,” he said.
	It was at this point the pump, clutched tightly by my Great Aunt, started to beat Nigel across his back, shoulders and head. He raised his arms in defence but the blows continued with a fierce frequency and strength. He was straddling his bike, which Eva held firmly. It made it difficult for him to move away from the volley of blows.  Nigel’s grin fled, much to our amusement. We stood in a row along the pavement, well entertained.
	Tim was a little concerned. “She’s awesome,” he said with glee, “but she’s gonna break my pump.”
	Great Aunt Eva, while striking Nigel, told him she’d love to meet his mother. “I’ll give her my opinion of her children and their morals too, tell me where you live and we shall go together, shall we?”
	The onslaught eventually drew to a close and Nigel, after being forced at pump point to offer sincere apologies to all concerned, meekly made a hasty escape.
	The next time I met Eva was a few years later, again at her house in Suffolk. She asked for my help, “You’re a strapping young man, perhaps you could help me move my dressing table.” No one said “No” to Great Aunt Eva. 
	In her bedroom, full of mysterious lavender smelling objects, I noticed the top of her bed side table. Curiously, there was an ornate china pepper pot and a large brass school bell there. A poker with a well-worn brass handle rested against it. She explained she was worried about intruders. She was getting older, she said. I feigned surprise. She was over eighty when she had assaulted Nigel. Her age was incalculable to me now. She explained her plan should an intruder breach the outer defences of the house – several heavy bolts on each door – She would throw pepper into their eyes and strike them with the heavy metal poker while ringing the school bell for assistance. I worried about the conversation for some time. What if someone was to make it to her bedroom? She would kill them for sure.
	Eva left me a little money when she died, I bought my first car with it. I was sad she was gone. I named my car after her. It was a large comfortable Rover two thousand with an old fashioned beige, leather interior. My friends said it was an odd choice, but it had a beast of an engine.
	Yea, its funny what you remember from your childhood.
	I really should have remembered the Roger’s youngest’s name because a few years later I would walk her home and on her doorstep, in the shadowy light of the streetlights kiss her. It was the sweetest kiss. She would say in amazement, “Oh my god, I just kissed Vid Weeks on my doorstep, you used to push me on the swing!” Rushing inside, she reappeared and showed me a photo of her and I, grubby and in our scruffy summer attire next to the swing in a pub garden. I remember that too, it was under a railroad bridge. I remember the taste of the lemonade and salted crisps and pushing the swing for hours to cries of “More!” Broke my heart she married someone else.
 
 
 
","August 13, 2023 10:29","[[{'Sam Mars': 'Loved the line - formality followed her, closely, at a trot', 'time': '14:24 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Vid Weeks': 'Thanks Sam, appreciate the feedback', 'time': '15:36 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Vid Weeks': 'Thanks Sam, appreciate the feedback', 'time': '15:36 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Tom Skye': 'Such a good mood running through this one Vid. A kind of mix of whimsy and nostalgia. The final paragraph about the girl and the way it linked to an earlier tangential thought really made the whole story feel like a fleeting memory. Quality work.', 'time': '22:23 Aug 16, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Vid Weeks': 'Thanks so much Tom, I really appreciate your feedback.\nI vacillated about including the last paragraph, but in the end felt it fit, so it was great to hear your take on it.', 'time': '12:10 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Vid Weeks': 'Thanks so much Tom, I really appreciate your feedback.\nI vacillated about including the last paragraph, but in the end felt it fit, so it was great to hear your take on it.', 'time': '12:10 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,bdmh28,Nighttime in Newsome,Diane Tolley,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/bdmh28/,/short-story/bdmh28/,Fiction,0,"['Funny', 'Mystery', 'Fiction']",11 likes,"
The town of Newsome, Saskatchewan has a secret.Has had for a very long time. Forty years or so.Umm…I guess it isn’t much of a secret if everyone knows.And they do. Everyone living in the town that is.Maybe I should get to the point…People in our town have been disappearing. Not in huge numbers. And not all at once. But here and there.One.Then, a few months later, another.And all out of our town jail.I am not making this up. Several of the people thrown in said jail for crimes ranging from misdemeanors to the more serious violent attacks, have, within hours—and some within minutes—disappeared.Without so much as a hair of evidence as to where they have gone.Consistently updated surveillance cameras have consistently shut down.Staff coming and going who could have seen and reported were conveniently ‘held up’ (pun intended) either during their coming.Or going.It really is a mystery.I have watched our police chief, Rich Richardson, a guy I went to school with over half a century ago, slowly turn grey through the years as his efforts to find the culprit—or culprits—constantly come to naught.It’s got to be embarrassing, really. I mean, he’s a smart guy.After every disappearance, he offers his resignation.But those of us on the board have turned him down. Even with this disgrace, he’s still the best our town has to offer.All of this brings us to last night.It started out as any other Friday night in our burg. Most families with younger children at home, enjoying Kraft pizza and the latest movies from the Blockbuster two-for-one weekend special.The teenage crowd raising the dust in the gym at the high school dance.And the twenty and thirty-somethings at Geo’s Bar and Grill downing the current beer-on-tap from Geo’s permanent bartending fixture, Elmo. (No relation to the Muppet character.)Things should have been just fine.Innocent.Normal.Fun, even.Well, until Jeremy had his unfortunate interaction with Mic’s wife, Cecily.And Mic got mad and things sort of…escalated.Now, you have to know that Mic’s a good guy. Quiet. Hard-working. Dependable.His getting bent over Jeremy’s free hands was…rather a departure.Oh, he’s protective of Cec. But never to the ‘I’m-going-to-punch-your-lights-out’ point.I have to admit that Jeremy, on the other hand, is one of those guys in every community (you know the type) that no one would miss. And was known for going a little far. This time, true to nature, he went a little far. He’d had a lot of Geo’s drink-one-get-one glasses of beer, after all.And at least one or two shots of tequila.So his judgment was…how shall I put this…questionable? And his balance? Worse.Who knows? Maybe he hadn’t meant to run both hands down the front of Cecily from neck to knees in front of everyone.He was falling over at the time…having just been booted in the behinder by Barry in a mistaken attempt to show how high he, Barry, could kick.But the fact remains that Cec felt violated. And began to cry.And Jeremy was definitely the culprit.I really don’t blame Mic for reacting. I’d probably have done the same if I was married. Or attached, even.Anyways, Mic grabbed Jeremy by the collar of his shirt and hauled him back to his feet. Then he hollered something in his native Romanian tongue that I really couldn’t catch.It sounded smooth and profound.There followed a moment of utter quiet. The kind you’ve heard happens immediately before a bomb drops. Even the rasp of the ancient jukebox stopped momentarily as the arm swung back and the inner workings spat out another record.Just as the words, “Give me time…” by Boy George drifted out of the speakers, Jeremy raised his drooping head and blinked at Mic.He seemed surprised to see him.The scowl on Mic’s face must have been a give-away that something was amiss, though, because Jeremy immediately dropped his visor.I'm sure you've already surmised that, though Mic is a peaceful guy, Jeremy isn’t.And ‘visor dropping’ ie. lowering his brow threateningly, was usually a precursor to…Jeremy swung one meaty fist at Mic’s unprotected face.…that.It connected, sending Mic stumbling backwards.He knocked poor Cecily, standing behind him, right out of her Nikes.Fortunately, he was able to grab his wife and turn slightly, taking the brunt of the blow when they hit the table loaded with drinks behind them.The tabletop, sadly, wasn’t made for such treatment and snapped immediately off its frame with a ‘pop’, sending drinks into the air with a speed previously achieved only by NASA.They rained—I do mean that literally—down on the suddenly gasping and shouting bystanders.And Jeremy. He of the fists.There was another moment of near silence, broken only by the sounds of, “Do you really want to hurt me…” pouring tinnily from the jukebox.And that’s when Jeremy went berserk.It took three of Geo’s’ regulars to subdue him. And that only when Abner—he of the 50-inch girth—sat on him.Then Jeremy was concentrating on basically sucking in enough air to stay alive.That’s about the time Chief Rich walked in. He shook his head sadly as he looked down at Jeremy pinned beneath Abner.With a quiet, “Let him up, Ab,” the Chief leaned back against the bar and proceeded to pull paper and a bag of tobacco out of his breast pocket. Deftly, he rolled himself a smoke, then, lighting a match against the bottom of one boot (he is so cool!), he took a long drag. He spit out a strand of tobacco, then looked at Jeremy, who had by now been hauled to his feet.Though a little blue around the gills, Jeremy appeared none the worse for the wear.The Chief sighed. “Guess I’ll have to take you in, Jer,” he said.Jeremy’s face went from zero to 60 in about half a second. Zero being tough and in charge and 60 being pants-wetting terrified.“Chief! No!” he screamed.“Well, I don’t know what else to do with you,” the Chief said. He looked around, obviously taking in the destroyed table, the catapulted drinks.Boy George was still droning on in the background about someone making him cry, but everyone else was as silent as Civics class just after a teacher asks a question. “From the look of things, you’ve been a busy boy,” the Chief went on.“It wasn’t all me!” Jeremy screamed. He looked around a little dazedly till his eyes fastened on Mic. Lifting a muscular arm, he pointed. “Mic! Mic started it!”Chief Rich’s brows went up as he, too, looked at Mic. “That true?” he asked him.Mic grimaced. “He manhandled Cecily and made her cry. I just hauled him up off the floor.”The Chief swung back to Jeremy and repeated the question. “That true?”Jeremy’s eyes shifted to one side. Then back. “Well…”The Chief shook his head again and sighed. “Come on, Jeremy.”“No!” Jeremy turned and made a wild leap into the crowd, but bounced off Arthur and hit the floor once more. Let’s face it, no one’s moving that guy without his approval.Chief Rich nodded to a couple of guys and they lifted Jeremy to his feet.By this point, Jeremy was a berserk screaming and babbling…something berserk and screaming and babbling.Again, Chief Rich shook his head. He turned toward the door. “Bring him along, boys.”Two more of Geo’s’ regulars had to step in to help because by this point, Jeremy wasn’t making sense any longer.And, being a heavy-duty mechanic, he is fairly strong.Finally, The Chief snapped on a pair of handcuffs and poor Jeremy was dragged out the door and into the street.The bar remained quiet and we could all hear Jeremy’s screams as he was dragged up to the police station half-a-block away.Even when he and his captors had obviously entered the building and the doors shut behind them, the screaming went on—albeit faintly.A few minutes later, the four guys returned, shaking their heads. “Poor guy,” one of them said.“He’s a goner for sure,” said another.Boy George had long been replaced by Michael Jackson, but, though the bar crowd was unusually subdued, I’m not sure anyone was listening.People began to drift toward the exits by ones and twos.I downed the last of my beer—the only one of the night, thank you Geo’s and your two-for-one drinks—and headed for the door.“Night, Ol’ Ben!” someone called. I waved.Once in the street, I looked around.A few people were still in sight—clearly heading toward home, or some other ‘not Geo’s Bar and Grill’ place.Jeremy’s screaming could still be heard. The stout walls of the jail held in everything except sound, obviously.I sighed and looked up at the full moon, just reaching its zenith.Then I scratched my forehead and turned toward the jail.
","August 15, 2023 22:54","[[{""Elephant's Child"": 'Oooh.  And now I am wondering what happens to the disappeared.  And whether Jeremy knew.', 'time': '19:59 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mike Rush': ""Hi Diane,\n\nMy, what a story-teller you are! This was such a fun read. It's got that small town homey feel. This kind of reminds me of something I'd see on Mayberry; the show from the 60s in America with Andy Griffith, Don Knotts, and Ron Howard as Opie. This is a little edgier, but it's got that same feel. \n\nI love your narrator. He's funny and observant. Doesn't take anything too seriously. And he's obviously involved in disappearing people at the jail. I like that you left what's happening there up to our imagination,\n\nI did wonder if when..."", 'time': '11:46 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Susan Foster': 'Such a good twist at the end! You are such a master storyteller, Diane.', 'time': '13:44 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Tacos 1000': 'Ooo that Full Moon makes me think... Great story...!', 'time': '22:16 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,a838jt,To Kill a Dog,Sophia Gardenia,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/a838jt/,/short-story/a838jt/,Fiction,0,"['Funny', 'Fiction', 'Contemporary']",11 likes,"
	Kidnapping your neighbor’s dog in the middle of the night when you suffered from arthritic knees was probably not a good idea, but Brian was doing it anyway. The muggy air clung to his skin like a wet bathing suit as he stood couched in the shadows of his house, cloth sack in hand. He’d already purchased some chloroform; all he had to do was kidnap Fifi like Paris kidnapping Helen of Troy. He would stuff Fifi into a sack, and voila, all his problems would disappear. Brian couldn't help grinning at the thought of a world without Fifi. 
	After glancing furtively up and down the street, he began creeping–more like plodding–toward the Henderson’s Victorian mansion. Brian wasn’t sure why he was trying to be inconspicuous; the streetlights were so bright that anyone could have glanced out of their window and seen an 81-year-old man in black sweatpants huffing across the Henderson’s neatly manicured lawn. But being a die-hard fan of Mission Impossible, he wasn’t about to pass up the chance to imitate Tom Cruise. 
	Within seconds (the lawn was quite small), Brian was standing on the Henderson’s porch. Brian pulled the black beanie Archie had left behind further down his balding head. He slowly pushed up one of the windows and snickered at his luck. Idiots. Who leaves their windows unlocked? He took a deep breath. And then the home alarm system went off. 
 Fuck. The lights flared on upstairs and banging feet joined the chorus of beeping alarm bells radiating from inside. 
 This is why old people don’t kidnap dogs, Brian thought and began sprinting–well, hobbling–to his house. 
 
*****
 One month earlier…
	“Dad? Dad!” Brian knew it was Archie pounding on the door, but his La-Z-Boy rocking chair was particularly comfortable, and the bar of Ghirardelli dark chocolate in his hand was particularly delicious, so he didn’t get up. 
	“I know you’re in there. I can literally see you. By the way, you have a ring of chocolate around your mouth.” 
	“Pah!” Brian sighed and heaved himself out of the rocking chair. Licking away the chocolate, he opened the door for his son. 
	“Didn’t the doctor tell you to reduce your sugar intake?” Archie asked, dragging his suitcase inside. 
	“He did.” Brian ruffled Archie’s curly blonde hair. “How’s the new job working out?”
	Walking to the window, he replied, “It’s fine. Hey, did you know that the house next door has been sold?”
	“What?” Brian pushed past Archie and scowled at the red sign screaming ‘SOLD!’ “Ugh, I had no idea.”
	“When was the last time you went outside?”
	“Perfect. Just perfect,” Brian muttered. “Now I have to deal with the whole new neighbor shebang. You know how I would introduce myself? ‘Hi, new neighbor! I’m so not excited to meet you! Here’s a crap ton of pie that you’ll never eat, but social law requires that I give it to you. Keep the hell out of my life. Bye!’”
	“You are such an outstanding role model, Dad.”
	“Right?”
	After a moment of silence, Archie mumbled, “Mom used to make pies for the new neighbors.”
	Brian looked down, trying to push away Helen’s beaming smile from his mind. “Yeah. She did.”
 
*****
	The new neighbors turned out to be a young couple by the name of Henderson. Brian glared at them out the window all day when they moved in and refused to see them when they came to introduce themselves. Regardless, he got a letter from them the next day, which he tossed on the coffee table unopened. 
	“Aren't you going to read it?” asked Archie. 
	“Nope.” 
	Archie grabbed the letter and followed his father into the kitchen, reading as he went. “The Hendersons are inviting you to a housewarming party!” Archie rolled his eyes as his father made puking noises. “You should go!”
	“No way.”
	“Aw, c’mon! You need to get out of the house more, socialize. It’s good for your health.”
	“Yeah, like standing for hours and eating shitty hors d'oeuvres is going to fix my knees.”
	“Well, if you’re going to be like that, I’ll schedule a date with Lisa on the same night. Do you really want to be home if we’re upstairs? In the bedroom?” Archie asked, waggling his eyebrows for emphasis.
	“Woah, woah, I didn’t say you could have sex all over my new sheets! This is a G-rated house, my friend.”
	“Those sheets are ten years old!”
	“All the more reason not to bring Lisa over.”
	“You are insufferable.” Archie tried to say it with conviction, but he couldn't keep in a giggle. 
	Brian was smiling too now. “I think you meant to say ingenious.”
	After much back and forth, Brian found himself on the Henderson’s doorstep a week later, tugging at the too-loose suit he’d last worn at his wedding and clutching the cheapest bottle of Rosé he could find. He instantly regretted the ten dollars he spent on the wine when Arnold Henderson launched into a lecture on all the home improvements he’d done on his old house. I don’t give a crap about your granite countertops and parquet flooring, Brian wanted to scream, but he only opened his mouth to shove in devilled eggs. 
	The worst part was the Henderson’s toy poodle, Fifi. The vile creature was like Cerberus with one head. She jumped up and slobbered all over him as soon as Brian set foot in the house. Then she barked and nipped at Brian’s heels all evening. Of course, everyone cooed and cuddled Fifi. You’re lucky I don’t kick your ass to Timbuktu, he thought as he discreetly glowered at her.
	Finally, the evening came to a close. Brian was elatedly shrugging on his jacket when Karen Henderson, mistaking his grin for satisfaction, approached him. 
	“Nice party, eh? I think Fifi really took a liking to you, sweet thing that she is.”
	“Did she?” Horrid dog.
	As if on cue, Fifi pattered over and began yapping. “Aww, come here, cutie,” Karen crooned as she picked up Fifi. “Do you want to say goodbye to Uncle Brian? Yes, you do! Give him a kiss, Fifi.” Oh no. 
“Uh, I think I’m good–” 
	“Don’t be shy. Kiss her, kiss her!” Fifi reached her paws toward Brian like Scylla reaching for the Argo. By now, everyone had gathered around Brian, pushing him toward the beast. Was he the only one who saw the evil bubbling in the pup’s beady eyes?
	“I really should be going–”
	“Here she comes!” The black holes that passed for Fifi’s eyes hurtled toward Brian, and he felt a rough tongue licking his wrinkled cheek. Trying not to gag, he pushed himself away from the little monster as the guests exclaimed, “Aww!”
 Fucking pet owners, thought Brian, and made his getaway.
 
*****
	As they were sipping iced tea on the porch the next day, Brian said to Archie, “Get out your new-fangled telephone gadget thing.”
	“It’s called a phone,” his son replied. “Why?”
	“See how long it takes from one dog-walker to the next.”
	“Really, Dad?”
	“I’m telling you, those rabid beasts are taking over the world.”
	“Dogs aren’t beasts. They’re vaccinated against rabies.”
	“You don’t know that,” Brian snapped sharply. 
	Crunching ice, Archie murmured, “You’re right. I don’t know that.”
	“Honestly, the depths people sink to for their dogs,” continued Brian, shaking his head. “Human dignity died the day people started scooping dog shit. Like Karen Henderson. What a dolt, chasing after that vile Fifi all night. Absolutely revolting.”
	""I bet you ten dollars Fifi’s not as bad as you make out."" 
	""She's a bloodthirsty monster. But deal. I'll use the money to buy Rosé for the next party you force me to go to.”
	“Look–” Archie gestured subtly “–here comes the dolt herself. And she’s bringing Fifi!”
	Brian muttered a string of curses as Karen and Fifi approached them. Karen didn’t even get the chance to say ‘hi’ before Fifi started pawing, scratching, and yelping at Brian. 
	Red in the face, Karen apologized profusely and dragged her pet away. Archie pulled out his wallet as Brian composed himself, more panicked than he would have liked.
	“Fork it over,” grunted Brian. 
	Handing his father a ten, Archie said, “She really is terrible.” 
	Brian pocketed the bill with a shaky grin. “Horrible.”
	Unfortunately, that was not the last of Fifi. The Hendersons fenced in their yard so Fifi could quote “frolic” outside whenever she wished, and Fifi was always outside. She barked constantly. This is unacceptable, thought Brian as he munched on Ghirardelli chocolate and glared at the little menace, white curls bouncing and snout covered in slobber as she yapped away. Maybe it was time to take action. 
 
*****
	The morning after Brian’s failed attempt at kidnapping Fifi, Karen Henderson came knocking. Archie had gone back to New York, so sadly, Brian had to peel himself off the La-Z-Boy and greet her. 
	Flicking her amber hair, Karen began, “Someone tried to break into our house last night. He didn’t steal anything, but we were wondering if you knew anything about it.”
	“Nope.” He smiled as sincerely as he could, even though his heart rate was spiking. Shoot. Should have taken my aspirin before this. 
	“We looked at the video footage–” Shit! They have cameras? “–and saw a squat man in black sweatpants.” Squat? Really? I may be old, but I’m not squat. “Are you sure you didn’t see anyone that fits that description?”
	“Quite sure.”
	“Oh. Well, I hope it doesn’t happen again. I’m so worried about our safety now, especially with little Fifi in the house.”
	“I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Is there anything else, or…” Leave, you odious woman. 
	“I mean, I just didn’t think that this was the type of neighborhood where crime happens.”
	“It really isn’t.”
	“And also, who wears sweats during a robbery?” Don’t you insult my sweats. 
	“No idea.”
	“Who does he think he is, Tom Cruise?” Excuse me? “Anyway, thanks for your help, Brian. It’s so great knowing that we have nice neighbors like you.”
	“Yeah. Anytime.” Not. 
	Karen left soon after, but Brian’s hatred of Fifi did not. If anything, he despised the little beast even more. It was time to up the ante. And soon, the perfect opportunity arose: the Hendersons were going out of town to visit friends. Would Brian mind looking after Fifi for a few days? Of course not! What were neighbors for–if not to rid the world of nasties like Fifi? Brian thought. 
	He tried not to doze as Karen rattled off her instructions. “Okay, so I’ll bring over her tub of toys–” Tub? “–along with her water and food bowls. You have to change her water out every two hours–” Every two hours? “–and feed her three-fifths cup of food–” Three-fifths?! “–at seven AM and seven PM. Actually, she’s so well trained that she can even eat at your table!” Can she piss in the toilet too? “It would be great if you could walk her at eight AM, one PM, and six PM.” Apparently not. “She’s so used to routine, you see.” You don’t say. “You should walk her at least a mile–” Sure! What’s another broken knee? “–and if it gets nippy, don’t forget to put on her little Gucci sweater.” Oh, lord. “I’ll give you a printout of all that info for reference.” Then why did you give me a ten-minute lecture, professor? 
	As soon as the Hendersons pulled out of their driveway, Brian grinned at Fifi, who gazed up at him with eyes as black as Hades' soul. “Ready to go for a ride, you malicious creature?”
 
*****
	The ride to Stone Mountain National Park took two hours. Brian wasn’t much of a hiker, but Fifi could barely keep up as he trekked. Fueled by his loathing for Fifi, he kept going, even as she tugged at her leash and maintained a steady stream of barking.
	Finally, Brian reached the top, feeling like Sisyphus. He only hoped he didn't drop the Fifi load and have to climb the mountain again. 
	Once he didn’t feel like he was suffocating, he carefully picked his way to the edge of the mountain, making sure no one else was around. The moment had arrived.
	“Goodbye, Fifi,” Brian said, eyes glinting. Then he held the dog over the cliff, like Rafiki holding up Simba. Brian could have even sworn he could hear “Circle of Life” playing in the background. 
	Unaware that she was at death’s doorstep, Fifi wiggled her paws and cocked her head. For once, she was quiet. 
	Brian got ready to relax his grip. But as he looked deeper into Fifi’s watery, black-hole eyes, he stopped seeing evil and started seeing Helen. Helen as she lay in her hospital bed, saliva dripping from her mouth, helpless as she was consumed by rabies. Rabies from a dog bite from a toy poodle who looked just like Fifi. 
	Fifi blinked at Brian. You know you can’t do it, whispered his conscience. 
	Brian clutched Fifi to his chest and crawled away from the edge. He leaned against a nearby pine tree, years' worth of tears bursting from his eyes. Fifi nuzzled Brian. He hugged her until the tears ceased. And then he hiked back down to his car. 
 
*****
	“I can’t believe you tried to kill a dog. Twice,” Archie said after Brian recounted the story on the phone.
	“I should have gone through with it. God, she’s so annoying. I bet you can hear her barking right now.”
	“It wouldn't have made up for Mom.”
	“I know that now.”
	“Just try not to kill any more dogs, okay?”
	“I still have the chloroform, so…”
	“Dad!”
	“Kidding.”
	“You know, you could have just gotten noise-canceling headphones.”
	“Uhh…”
 
","August 17, 2023 16:09","[[{'AnneMarie Miles': ""This was a hoot! I loved the split-up scenes, which worked well to show us Brian's character. As well as the interweaving thoughts between dialogues. I particularly enjoyed this during Karen's instructions on how to care for Fifi. That was hilarious commentary on how particular and coddling pet owners can be... I know from experience. I'm pretty sure I left written instructions for my in-laws on our first trip away from our pup. No 3/5ths cup of food, though, hah! \n\nI'm glad Brian came to his senses... Having the bit about the deceased wife/..."", 'time': '02:49 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': ""Aww, thank you! This was a hoot to write as well. I kept giggling as I wrote Brian's inner commentary, lol."", 'time': '03:53 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': ""Aww, thank you! This was a hoot to write as well. I kept giggling as I wrote Brian's inner commentary, lol."", 'time': '03:53 Sep 01, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""One take away from my weekend rubbing elbows with crime, thriller, suspense, mystery, adventure, and action writers (See my entry this week 'Thank You, Killer Nashville') is that you don't kill the dog. So I am glad Brian didn't succumb to his fantasy:)\nOtherwise great story telling as usual."", 'time': '19:16 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Thank you, Mary!', 'time': '21:44 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Thank you, Mary!', 'time': '21:44 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Wendy M': 'A very engaging story, of course as a dog lover I was horrified, but as reader I was greatly entertained. Well done.', 'time': '14:02 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': ""Thank you! I'm glad it was entertaining."", 'time': '17:19 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': ""Thank you! I'm glad it was entertaining."", 'time': '17:19 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Shades of darkness and light , very well woven together. And it all makes sense at the end. Well done!', 'time': '11:48 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Thank you!', 'time': '12:22 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Thank you!', 'time': '12:22 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Wow, what a fun tale, Sophia. I found the old man to be marvelously sour and unlikable, but I still liked him! That's a masterful job of building a character, my friend.\n\nThe ending roared with sadness, and just at the right time. One can now understand Brian's hatred of dogs, and his attitude towards life, though terrible, is accepted and even expected. What a great piece, Sophia. Crafted expertly and written with your usual engaging style. Nicely done, Sophia. Nicely done indeed.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '13:04 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': ""Thanks, Delbert! Brian was a very fun character to write, so I'm glad he came across as well-built."", 'time': '16:34 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': ""Thanks, Delbert! Brian was a very fun character to write, so I'm glad he came across as well-built."", 'time': '16:34 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Scott Christenson': 'Fun story, And just a fantastic opening paragraph. The image of a cranky old man at war with the neighbors works well, and we get a good answer to his obsession about dogs at the end.  Great writing.', 'time': '04:46 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Thanks, Scott!', 'time': '11:49 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sophia Gardenia': 'Thanks, Scott!', 'time': '11:49 Aug 18, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,0vj96q,RESIDENT EVIL,Rae Toonery,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0vj96q/,/short-story/0vj96q/,Fiction,0,"['Crime', 'Funny', 'Fiction']",10 likes,"
Resident Evil
“Have you seen this?” Marie asked, sticking her copy of The Boonhill Village Voice under Sally’s nose. The pair of them were sitting at the little Formica table of the Rose Garden Care Home staff kitchen on their break.
Sally put aside her Bumper Puzzle Compendium and adjusted her specs. “CARE HOME RESIDENT ARRESTED,” she read. “Ere – isn’t that old what’s-his-face?” She clicked her fingers, trying to jog her memory. She had all on recalling the names of all her children, nieces, and nephews these days. As far as the residents went, it was a bit of a grey blur.
“Mr. Grainger.” Marie’s memory for names and faces was second to none. “Came here last June… or was it July?. Only stayed a few weeks.”
“What’s he done then?” Sally asked. In the local paper, if someone did their big shop on a different day it made the headlines. “Stole the pink wafers? Tampered with the brakes on someone’s wheelchair? Dealing Viagra to his wrinkly old mates?” 
“Suspected murder.” Marie said, nodding solemnly, as if she’d known all along it would come to this. Which was nonsense of course. She didn’t think there was anything out of the ordinary when the old man’s family decided to move him to Graves Road. It happened all the time. It starts off with, “put our father in a home? Not over our dead bodies.” And then it’s, “Well, if we absolutely must, but only the best care will do for our Dad.” And before you know it, they’re telling staff how, “we can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for him, but it’s the cost. We simply can’t afford it.” So, they end up at Graves Road. What a name, though. You’d think they’d tart it up a bit; mostly they’re named after trees, aren’t they? The Laurels, The Sycamores, The Willows. Here at Rose Garden, as the name implies, we deliver care the average crusty can only dream of.
*
 
 
Coming Of Age
I always wondered what it would be like to do it. Long before true crime was in vogue, I was always a little in awe of the Geins and Gacy’s of this world. But I never thought I could go through with it. It was a fantasy that for all I knew, everybody harboured somewhere deep inside themselves. 
When I was looking after Mum, I came close a few times, I can tell you. And I defy any full-time carer to deny it hasn’t crossed their mind at some point. But that opportunity was taken from me by dear old Natural Causes. 
You get to a point in life, don’t you, where you have to accept that certain things have passed you by. Then Covid came along. The way the papers talked, you’d think I would have been quaking in my slippers. They had you believing everyone over seventy has lungs as flimsy as a single use face mask. But Covid was my accomplice, my cover, the only truly living thing among the Zimmer-frame dead. I was never going to embrace armchair gymnastics or join the jigsaw jamboree. 
The first time, I have to admit, was pretty amateur and absolutely nothing to write home about. She was sitting in her room, with the door wide open, choking on that  now familiar Covid cough. Music to my ears. She went down like a baby after a breastful of the white stuff. You’re probably imagining the old pillow over the face routine, but that’s just your squeamish sentiment. You don’t want to look death in the face – I understand. 
When you’re young, you imagine The Reaper slashing at you, with his scythe fresh off the whetstone. By my time of life, he’s lost his edge; your fears age with you, you see. Sometimes I catch him with his trousers down. Not a pretty sight. He forgot where he left his scythe years ago, now he’s armed with a feeble butter knife. A butter knife will do the job, of course; you wouldn’t leave one lying around a murderer’s cell would you? 
At first, I tried to make it quick, not wanting to get caught, but I learned to savour the moment. After all, I had the perfect cover. If anything, they wanted Covid casualties; the more dramatic the daily death toll, the more scared the public became. So I was performing a civic duty, when you stop to think about it. People really do become powerless when they’re scared. I should know.
Take Frank Harris. They’d put the little cross on his door, so I knew they’d be giving him a wide berth. The stained pajamas and sheets were a testament to that, and there was a distinct whiff of stale dentures hanging in the air. He was sat by the window, wheezing away, barely managing to mist the pane.  Maybe a family member had just been to look in on him. There was a lot of that. Strained conversations through the double glazing. Maybe he was waiting for a visit. I prefer to think he was looking for a way out.
“Hello, Frank,” I said, closing the door. His chair was positioned in between a walking frame to his right and a small dining trolley to his left: caged in by his own mobility aids. Pitiful. His lunch, four little triangles of salmon on whole meal, sat untouched on the tray. “Lost your appetite?” I asked, wheeling it out of the way.
He didn’t answer, just fell forward, so his chin was almost on the window ledge. So you can see, really I was doing him a favour. What sort of life is it? Stuck in these places, awaiting dispatch. And the location - Graves Road – who’s idea of a sick joke was that? 
Before I came here, the ‘loved ones’ booked me into the Rose Garden for a short stay. A sort of ‘come and look what you could have won’ gesture. “I think I’ve adjusted rather well, all things considered, don’t you, Frank?”
I don’t know what came over me, but I was suddenly taken right back to the rugby scrums of my youth. I tucked his head under my right arm and stood upright, palm clamped over his wizened mush. I could feel him trying to force a desperate prayer through his gritted-gums. 
While I held him there, I took his limp wrist in my left hand and placed my fingers on his weakening pulse. “Not long now, Frank. Soon be over.”
Even after the last faint tap, I counted to ten, just in case. There’s no feeling like it. Empowering – there’s a word that’s overused these days. But honestly, I had to stop myself tearing his bonce right off his scrawny little neck, running with it through the main corridor, and scoring a try in the staff room. I had to keep checking the mirror to make sure I hadn’t done a Benjamin Button.
Looking back, those last moments with Frank were really special. I sat on his bed afterwards and polished off those salmon sandwiches. They were delicious. Such a shame it took me so long to find my ‘Happy Place’. Such a shame it couldn’t last.
Seventeen I managed. Before they stuck me in here. Plucked from the Grave and cast into solitary confinement. I’ve made no demands, despite the lack of access to fresh air, the woefully limited library, and the menu, which is quite frankly in very poor taste. 
All I’ve asked for is a cellmate. Hardly an unreasonable request, is it? 
 
 
 
","August 15, 2023 21:22","[[{'Marc Rothstein': ""Hi Rae,\nI've been recruited to critique your story. (Critique Circle)\nIt was well written, a pleasure to read despite some unfamiliar British phrasing.\nYour humor was funny, dry, and on point. The plot met the Prompt criteria perfectly.\nThe only technical issue I had was a slight mixture of point-of-views at the end of the first section. It seemed to have shifted from Marie to the old man. The second section POV was purely the latter.\nOverall, a great job."", 'time': '00:18 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Rae Toonery': 'Thanks Marc! Will take a look at the POV issue - really appreciate the FB', 'time': '12:09 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Rae Toonery': 'Thanks Marc! Will take a look at the POV issue - really appreciate the FB', 'time': '12:09 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'This is gooooood. Very creepy. The rugby analogy was spine-chilling.\nWell done on this!', 'time': '11:46 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,mx8036,Girls Just Want To Have Fun,Wendy M,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/mx8036/,/short-story/mx8036/,Fiction,0,"['Friendship', 'Romance', 'Funny']",10 likes,"
           Bonnie swung the car around the hairpin bends with their views across the Carpathian mountains. She hadn't told Lulu about the car that went over the edge two weeks before but the remains were still there, wheels uppermost, and Lulu shrieked when she saw the taped-off area. The Transfagarasan highway had claimed another victim.       ""The lake at the top is stunning, darling, worth the ride I promise.""       Ceausescu's crumbling road had been built for tanks, not a rented Skoda.       ""That's it, Mother, last time. This is not a quiet week in the mountains. Christopher was right; you're too old for this. And so am I."" Bonnie was glad she hadn't mentioned the brown bears that liked to sit in the road and hold up the traffic. And that Lulu couldn't see in the interior mirror.       I wanted her to marry Mr Right, not Mr Always Right. She used to be fun.#       ""Eighty is not old.""       ""What were you thinking? And you're eighty-three.""       ""And you act like you are.""        Mother and daughter glared at each other. Bonnie's arm was strapped across her chest, since falling off a chair while changing a light bulb; she did not need a referral to the Falls Clinic, she wanted to go home and she told the doctor so. Lulu could roll her eyes and make huffing noises; Bonnie was adamant, no more tests.       “Well you can’t live alone any longer.”       Bonnie knew this was coming. She’d fought ageing; couldn't bear the thought of being dumped in an old person's home. Force-fed pureed food, every day the same. It would be a life sentence, punctuated by her attempts to escape.#       Margaret Beaumont, Bonnie, was a four-foot-ten bundle of energy. Her enthusiasm for life made her stand out in a crowd; even when it towered above her head, they would hear her commanding tones.        ""Skittles tomorrow girls, three o'clock, then we’ll go to Marconi's for an early dinner and back home in time for the dancing.""        Ending the group chat, Bonnie switched on the television. There was a YouTube video of her friends in Namibia she needed to catch up with. The images of elephants at a muddy waterhole, swishing water at each other, brought back memories.#       ""I'm soaking, Bonnie. It's not funny.""       Tom had stalked back to the lodge, his hackles raised like an angry cheetah. Bonnie gave a thumbs-up signal to the culprit, a mud-splattered baby elephant, and settled back to watch the wildlife parading under the setting sun. No, Tom, I don't think the elephants are stupid at all. Tom hated Africa, too hot, too dusty, too much spicy food.        ""Well, what did you think it would be like, Brighton? Paris? You took the job, Tom.""       Bonnie was shoving clothes into a suitcase. Not even halfway through a three-year contract, he'd asked for a transfer back to London. And not told her until the deed was done. She adored African life; the markets, the ladies swaying in their bright wax print dresses, and the mixed heady scent of spices and diesel fumes. For a moment she thought she should have stayed, but a secret of her own put paid to that. And despite his stuffiness, she loved him.#       There were five of them: Bonnie, Mo, Sally, Jane, and Kathy. They had not known each other for long but had spent much time together. They were all a similar age and shared many of the same interests. Saturday was their usual day out, although Bonnie liked to ensure they kept busy.         Monday; a walk around the lake, in a fragrant park, flowerbeds all well maintained. They would collect wildflowers on the lake's edge, although Mo said some, like primroses, had protected status and should be photographed but not picked, and that Bonnie should not get too close to the water. Tuesday; jigsaw and crossword puzzles in the village hall. Wednesday was art and crafts with cake and coffee; flowers for pressing and framing, and pine cones to be sprayed gold and used in their Christmas decorations. Thursday meant choir practice in the morning and yoga in the afternoon. Bonnie liked yoga. It meant she could sit and plan, while masking her busy mind with a serene smile. Friday most of them shopped. The Buzzybus took them to the local supermarket or into town. Sundays were for family visits.       Sunday, thought Bonnie, is not my favourite day.#       Saturday’s skittles match was a success. Sally and Jane took on Kathy and Mo. Kathy said Sally cheated and had added an extra ten points to her score. Bonnie checked Sally's adding up, which, as usual, turned out to be wrong. This time she under-counted. Kathy wasn't a good loser, but the girls were all laughing when they got to the restaurant.       ""Did I tell you girls about the time I went to Montecatini Terme with Luca?""#        Luca was a charmer and Bonnie was alone; it was her first trip to Tuscany since her world had changed, and she was looking forward to sampling the soothing treatments at the spa and seeing the famous Fontana Guidotta.             ""English? Are you looking for a guide?""       The rate he was charging seemed reasonable and Bonnie was happy to have some company. Thirty years younger than her; a blond-haired blue-eyed Tuscan, he stood out among the boys hovering around the hotel entrance. She was surprised when he arrived the next morning in an ageing, yellow, Fiat 500, with a pink rose on the front seat. Bonnie bought lunch, and champagne for herself and San Pellegrino for him. He laughed at her jokes and complimented her Italian. For two weeks he hung on her every word, and Bonnie enjoyed the flattery.        ""Bonnie, my car is broken, and I am poor, will you buy me a new one?""       She smiled at him, patting the hand that rested on her arm.       ""Oh, Luca. My dear boy. Of course not. Do you think I don't recognise three-hundred-euro trainers when I see them. Now, help me with my bags, I have a plane to catch.""#       ""I paid him well for his company.""       ""Bonnie, you're shameless. The poor boy could have been genuinely fond of you; you may have broken his heart.""       Poor Kathy has no sense of fun. I must work on that. And it was only a distraction, Tom, nothing more.       Enzo, the restaurant owner, joined them at the table, his eyes lighting on Jane, the newest recruit to the group.        ""Jane doesn’t cook, Enzo, but she's an excellent dancer."" Bonnie said. Even to her, it sounded like a C.V.       ""Really, Bonnie. I don’t enjoy cooking, but I do like eating out and I'll come here again.""       ""Jane would like to learn Italian."" Bonnie invented. ""Now that Mario is running the restaurant, don't you have time on your hands, Enzo?""       Jane's face had taken on a pink hue.       ""Well, yes, I have time, but I would not like to say I would be a good teacher, but I would be happy to try. I hope I will see you here again before long.""      He bowed to the group and returned to the kitchen. His son, who ran the restaurant, looked across at Bonnie and nodded.     ""Enzo has been on his own for far too long."" She said.      A brief journey and the girls were all home and settled. Dancing at 7 pm was next on their busy agenda, but Bonnie was thinking about tomorrow.#       ""Well, how the hell did that happen?""       ""Do you need me to answer that?""       ""Don't be so bloody facetious, Bonnie. You were still taking the pill? It is mine, is it?""       She slapped him hard, leaving fingerprints on his cheek. How dared he doubt her? Was it her fault so many men enjoyed her company? She was friends with their wives too. They stood, facing each other. To Bonnie, it felt like a lifetime. He left the room like a thundercloud waiting to burst. She didn’t speak to him for two days, waiting for him to apologise, burdened with guilt for striking him. But the pause was too long. It had been so much fun; falling in love, getting married, travelling for his work. Tom never said no to children. He always said, not yet.#       On Sunday morning, Bonnie got up early and made a cake. It was her usual routine. Half for Sunday tea and the leftovers for arts and crafts on Wednesday. She tidied, plumped cushions, dusted picture frames; perfect, she thought.      ""Hello, Mother,"" her daughter, Lulu, bent down and kissed her cheek.        ""Hello Margaret."" Christopher said. ""Keeping busy?"" He asked the same question every week.       ""It’s Bonnie, Chris,"" she knew her son-in-law hated the diminutive. ""It has been since I was four."" He grinned at her. Perhaps after thirty-plus years, he was loosening up? She doubted it.       Never Maggie, or Peggy, she was Margaret to her mother until the day her uncle and auntie treated her to a new dress and mum lifted her and said, ‘aren't you bonny.’         ""Alright you two,"" her daughter put a small bunch of freesias on the table; Bonnie's favourite. Tom used to buy them for her and their sweet scent reminded her of him. ""How are you Mother? What have you been doing?""       Bonnie smiled, what should she say? I’m so thrilled dear; off to Nepal next week; hang-gliding down Everest. How would that go down, and what other shocking revelations could she invent?        ""Fine, darling, I went out with friends yesterday but nothing more exciting than that.""       Lulu's face brightened. Bonnie knew her daughter wouldn't be at all surprised if she decided to emigrate or take up mixed martial arts. Lulu was a daddy's girl.  #       She couldn’t move out, but she wasn’t backing down.       “I didn’t say get rid of it. It was a shock, that’s all. Just a flippant remark. You’re, I don’t know, unpredictable I guess, Bonnie.”       She had travelled halfway around the world for Tom's job being the dutiful hostess, the organiser of his life.""I could have had a career too. For once you can put someone else first.”              It was an uneasy six-month truce.         Huge blue-black eyes under curled lashes fixed their gaze on Tom's face. His hand caressed the tiny cheeks and his lips curled as the baby's rosebud mouth nuzzled at his finger. He looked up at Bonnie; bloodied, bruised, and exhausted after nineteen hours in labour.        ""She’s gorgeous.” The crack in his voice took her by surprise. “I'm sorry, Bonnie. Honestly, I'm so sorry.""        He leaned across the bed and kissed her. Then wrapped himself around his daughter's fingers.        Twenty-two years before a massive heart attack dropped him like a hammer blow, on a heartless Sunday afternoon.     #       Tea over, and alone again, Bonnie slumped in her chair. She loved her daughter, but she was so straight-laced. I’m sure we brought her up to be more adventurous. Did I get it wrong, Tom? She poured a small Glenfiddich and put her phone on silent. Then switched on the television and settled back in her recliner; results time.              #                      Monday dawned cool but sunny, perfect for going around the lake. They met outside the village gates.         ""Well girls, what did you think of last night? Did the right person go out?""        They talked about the results of their favourite dance show, the costumes, music, and what shocking things judge Bruno said. It was their Monday ritual. Bonnie manoeuvred herself around to Jane.         ""Enzo is charming, isn't he? ""       ""Bonnie, you are such a matchmaker, he might have a lady friend. But, yes, he looks lovely. I’m lucky, I have good friends here, but I would like someone to cuddle""       ""His son would love to see him happy with someone, why not you? Look at you, so attractive and clever.""       She squeezed her friend’s hand.       ""Girls, Jane and I have a hair appointment tomorrow so won't be available for crosswords.""           Jane’s raised eyebrows made the others laugh.        ""I've spoken to Enzo. He’s expecting us both at two, although I shall cry off with a headache once I’ve seen you safely there; but we're getting our hair done first.""        On Wednesday little work was done in the Arts and Crafts room; the girls were agog to know about Jane's Italian lesson. They admired her new hairstyle and begged for details of what Enzo had said.       ""Enzo is delightful, and a much better teacher than he thinks. We did some basic sentences, like ordering coffee. I'm going back tomorrow so I'll miss yoga, but it is going to be so hard,"" she said. ""I’m fluent in French, German and Italian but I have to pretend to know nothing.""       Bonnie gave a satisfied grin as she drove back to her apartment; it gave her pleasure when her friends were happy. Mo loved the choir she'd formed. It was a chance to show off her soft soprano voice. Jane was coming out of her shell. Now to work on Sally, who wanted to do an Open University course but didn't have the confidence to sign up. Kathy was going to be more of a challenge. A bit like her son-in-law. Ah, well, Rome wasn't built in a day. It's his birthday soon, perhaps he'd like tickets for a segway safari? She chuckled, knowing he'd settle for the Royal Albert Hall.#         The mobility scooter scorched around the corridors: Bonnie's days were full of activity and she’d made wonderful friends. And, if she fell off a chair the sensors in her apartment would alert the staff. Despite her reservations, it had worked out well, taking Lulu and Christopher's advice and moving into the Lakeside Retirement Village.         She turned out okay, Tom, our girl.     
","August 15, 2023 22:08","[[{'Derrick M Domican': 'Very clever way of telling a story of a larger than life character. And what a life!\nI would like to be a little bit like Bonnie!', 'time': '10:20 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Wendy M': 'Thanks Derrick', 'time': '12:07 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Wendy M': 'Thanks Derrick', 'time': '12:07 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Vid Weeks': ""Loved Bonnie and the line 'The mobility scooter scorched around the corridors' is brilliant."", 'time': '19:25 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Wendy M': ""Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed it."", 'time': '19:57 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Wendy M': ""Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed it."", 'time': '19:57 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,494mko,Silver Stories,Rebecca Vickerstaff,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/494mko/,/short-story/494mko/,Fiction,0,"['Friendship', 'Romance', 'Fiction']",10 likes,"
‘We have found that connecting the generations through storytelling has huge benefits to both old and young. Take a look at our website silverstories.co.uk to learn more how to get involved.’‘That was Dame Esther Rantzen, DBE and Trustee of the Silver Stories charity speaking about the success of the charity especially during lockdown…over to Sally for a travel update…’Sarah loved listening to her favourite radio presenter every morning. Her joyous tones and naughty innuendo were a light relief to the drudge of everyday life. The recent feature about connecting the old and young had really hit home. Juggling family, friends, her career and business had certainly been taking a toll on Sarah and when she did have a moment to herself she spent it wondering what life was all about if not to do something meaningful.Sarah felt her life couldn’t be more different to Rachel’s, the heroine in her latest read from Grace Reynolds. How was Rachel able to juggle life as a surgeon, a family life with three children and a hot husband? How Grace was able to create these beautiful villages in a part of America Sarah longed to travel to, with such steamy relationships, was beyond her. Sarah thought that one day, when she wasn't bogged down with her mundane life: rushing to get her son to school, checking he’d completed his homework and then travelling the longer than usual journey to the school where Freddie, her 6-year-old had managed to secure a scholarship, she would have time to craft her masterpiece.But for now, as she rushed out the door, gym clothes on, no make-up on, she called to her husband Tim to say they were off, but he was still tucked in bed and completely unaware of her load.Thinking more about the radio broadcast and how she longed to still speak to her grandmothers who had both passed on in recent years, she said to Freddie who was completed glued to his screen:‘Freddie darling, how would you feel if we were to call an elderly lady or gentleman one morning and read them one of your favourite stories? Freddie muttered ‘Mummy I’m trying to watch Paw Patrol’.Sarah sighed and thought she may investigate later that day.Meanwhile in Honeysuckle residential home some 90 miles away from Sarah…'na na na na na na…’That whiney drone meant the start of the stimulating activities for the day…a repeat of yet another soap opera. With that, Margaret determinedly grabbed her stick, hoisted her frail frame up and made her way to her room…at least Ms. Christie would provide her with a bit of stimulation. Margaret had to tell herself she still had her wit and faculties and was determined not to get sucked into a life of sleep and TV. How depressing. She knew she had an hour or two before Mae, the care home manager, came in to check in on her before lunch.Honestly, she felt as if she was doing a stint in Holloway but without the thrill of murdering one of her inmates. When she’d first moved to Honeysuckle with her beloved husband Ted, the thought of leaving their lovely home had been devastating but at least they were together. After a bout of flu last February, Ted has not been well and was taken that evening to the local hospital. The wonderful manager of the home Mae has stayed by her side and advised that she not go into hospital for fear of infection and so the two of them waited by the phone anxiously. Exhausted, she drifted off into the night and woke to a piteous expression from Mae. She knew he had gone and with that, over 50 years spent at each other’s side disappeared. She suddenly felt very nauseous and headed to her ensuite bathroom. What on earth was she going to do now? Their family lived in the livelier parts of the UK, closer to London which was understandable as they had their careers.She asked Mae if she could be alone and with that headed back to bed, pulled the duvet over her head and sobbed uncontrollably. It felt like years had passed but that was just the feeling of grief wrapping itself around her. The weeks since Ted had gone passed in a daze. She tried to keep alive some of the intimate moments they had shared over the years. She struggled to remember their first kiss and their first time. When she kissed him, she felt as if their lips were made for each other, and she loved the way he looked almost lost in a room until their eyes were fixed on each other. She could always see the way his shoulders relaxed as they got nearer and knew that all would be fine as long as they were together. She had no idea what the future now looked like and with that a huge wave of loneliness hit and she started sobbing again.A light tap on the door. It was Mae. 'Margaret, I’m so sorry to interrupt you my dear but I’ve had a phone call from a lovely young mum called Sarah and her 6 yr old son. Do you remember you signed up to the silver stories programme with Ted? Anyway, Sarah was keen to speak to you, but I've explained the situation and she can call again. ''Yes, I think that may be for the best, I’m not much fun…'Sarah had hung up the phone after speaking to Mae. ‘Oh, that's so sad’. 'What's up my love? Tim asked as he came through the door. 'The charity I mentioned to you the other night. I actually followed up today with the lady they connected me to….well, it's just so sad, her husband of over 50 years passed a few weeks ago. I feel so desperately sorry for her. 'A day later, Sarah couldn’t stop thinking about Margaret and how isolated she may feel, so she called Honesuckle care home again and asked to speak to Margaret. She felt quite uplifted when Mae picked up the phone and was pleased to hear her voice ‘actually she's feeling a bit brighter today and has just stepped out into the garden. I'll call her in, and we’ll call you back shortly.'Sarah felt positively uplifted. As Mae dialed the number and passed the phone to Margaret, she hesitated before saying ‘hello my dear….Sarah was overwhelmed by the warmth of her voice. 'Hello Margaret, its Sarah. Of course, you know that.... silly me. I was given your number by silver stories and wondered if you would like my son and I to read to you. Mae passed on your very sad news and I'm so sorry.''It's ok my dear…it’s the price we pay for love…'Sarah choked slightly and then said 'ok shall we begin then. Freddie has brought one of his Peter Rabbit stories if ok…'Of course, …halfway through the call Freddie started to fidget so Sarah sent him off for a snack and she attempted to fill the silence.'What books do you like reading Margaret?'Well, I am proan to a good murder, so I enjoy anything by Agatha christie…I think its living here…I want to murder most of the residents. That was a joke my dear, they’re very kind but my real passion has always been Romance.With that Sarah felt she had met a kindred spirit. Oh, I do love romance. Is there anyone in particular you enjoy?Well, my dear…Nora Roberts, Danielle Steele, Kristin Hannah and well I know Grace Roberts very well.Sarah couldn’t believe it; she had read all of Grace Roberts novels and loved the amazing communities she had built and gorgeous relationships and friendships. How do you know Grace, Sarah cautiously asked?Well, my dear, I am Grace Roberts….
","August 17, 2023 20:13",[]
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,u168uu,Golden Girl,Jennifer Green,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/u168uu/,/short-story/u168uu/,Fiction,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Fiction']",10 likes,"
Agatha's eyes never left the television screen, where scenes of superhuman feats were being displayed. She watched in awe as these young heroes soared through the air and saved innocent people from harm. The vibrant costumes and supernatural powers stirred her soul and she couldn't help but wonder why it wasn't her up there doing all those amazing things. 
 
Though she was 80 years old, Agatha had spent her life so far following the rules - working at the library and taking care of her daughter Diana on her own. Now that she was older, Agatha felt purposeless and like a burden to her beloved daughter. Her days lacked meaningfulness, passing by with jigsaw puzzles, TV show reruns, and occasional book club meetings. To make matters worse, Agatha longed for more - for adventure and something to give her life value once again. 
 
On the television screen, a man dressed in blue and red lifted a bus above his head to the cheers of everyone beneath him. This spurred Agatha into action and she stood straight in her armchair with newfound determination. 
 
Diana stepped out of the kitchen to alert her mother that lunch was ready, only to find her bending and stretching in the living room. ""What are you doing?"" Diana asked incredulously.
 
""I'm becoming a superhero,"" Agatha answered confidently.
 
""Well... if anyone can do it, it would be you!"" Diana joked encouragingly, though deep down she didn't think it was realistic.
 
Agatha grinned, now full of confident resolve. She may be an elderly woman but she still had some fight left in her blood! No matter what it took, she was ready to make a difference in the world - but first she had to find out how? What could an aged lady do that would qualify as superheroism?
 
She pictured the young, muscular heroes on TV. What powers could she possibly have at her age? She glanced down at her wrinkled hands and hunched shoulders, feeling suddenly small.
 
The voice on the TV blared: ""Citizens, do not fear! Captain Justice is here to save the day!"" 
 
Agatha clenched her fists. Why should age stop her from being a hero too? She had her wit, her compassion, her lifetime of experience. That was her superpower.
 
With a surge of determination and a belly full of lunch, Agatha marched to the coat closet and pulled out a red cape she used to keep warm in the winter months. As she fastened it around her shoulders, she felt strength flow through her aged bones. 
 
""Look out world,"" she proclaimed. ""Agatha is here to make a difference!""
 
She strode to the patio, cape billowing behind her. As she stepped into the sunlight, no trace of doubt remained. She may be 80 years old, but she was ready for this adventure.
 
The sun shone through the oak trees, dappling Agatha's path. She and her cat, Whisper, walked briskly, invigorated by the fresh air. A confidence bloomed within her - no more aches or foggy thoughts. Being a superhero gave her life purpose again. 
 
A cool breeze blew up from the water, lifting Agatha's hair. The park was silent, and except for a lone figure seated on a bench in the distance, it was deserted. 
 
It was Lila Thompson, her neighbor. Agatha was about to call out to her when she noticed a menacing figure emerge from the bushes.
 
Agatha's pulse quickened as if her heart were pounding its way through her chest. She had to intervene but how? Whisper stared up at her expectantly as if urging her on.
 
Agatha's stern voice and firm steps announced her arrival ""Step away from her."" She came to a stop in front of the mugger, who spun around in surprise.
 
His scowling face morphed into an expression of shock and disbelief as he took in Agatha's small stature and elderly features. ""Mind your business, lady."" The muscles in his arms tensed as he glared at her, his knife pointed at Lila. ""Hand it over!"" he growled.
 
Agatha did not back down. She met his gaze with a determined look and repeated her command. ""I said step away.""
 
Sneering, the mugger turned back to Lila. ""Hand it over!"" His patience was wearing thin.
 
Lila's body trembled with fear, tears streaming down her cheeks as the mugger towered over her. She begged for mercy, but he just laughed in response. Agatha knew she had to act fast before things turned ugly. Her heart pounded with adrenaline as she sprinted towards them, tackling the mugger to the ground.
 
As they wrestled, Agatha couldn't help but think about how foolish this was. Sure, she had always been a fighter, but what if the knife had ended up plunging into her chest? Was it really worth risking her life for a stranger? But then again, how could she just stand by and watch someone get hurt?
 
The knife fell from the mugger's grip as they tumbled onto the grass. Both were equally shocked at this display, but Agatha knew better than reveal her surprise. Pinning his shoulders down, she glowered at him. ""You will never threaten an innocent woman again,"" she hissed.
 
The mugger gaped up at her, stunned by this old woman's courage. For a moment, he seemed remorseful - almost apologetic - but it quickly passed as he struggled beneath her.
 
Satisfied he was subdued, Agatha stood and helped Lila to her feet. ""Are you alright?"" she asked gently.
 
Lila managed a shaky nod. ""Th-thank you,"" she whispered. She squeezed Agatha's hand, her eyes shining with gratitude.
 
Agatha smiled. She had saved the day with her wits and courage, not superpowers. She realized being a hero wasn't about age or abilities - it was about heart.
 
Now free, the mugger stumbled away, his confused eyes darting around as he made an escape. Agatha stood her ground and watched him go before turning to Lila, her voice thick with assurance: ""I'm getting you out of here.""
 
Lila trembled in response, but the terror in her heart was quickly replaced by a burning determination as she felt Agatha take a firm grip on her arm. Her strength was like a guardian angel shielding Lila from danger as they walked away.
 
They reached a busy sidewalk outside the park. Lila gave her a grateful hug. ""I can't thank you enough. I don't know how you did it.""
 
Agatha just smiled. 
 
As Lila was taken to her doorstep, Agatha scooped up Whisper and tenderly caressed its fur. ""We have a new plan!"" she exclaimed. The kitty meowed in agreement.
 
Eagerly, Agatha marched on home, ready to commence her transformation into the superhero she was always meant to be. She found herself reflecting on the wondrous prospect of being an older woman with superpowers.
 
Whisper walked beside Agatha as they sped home, her mind preoccupied with plans for her costume.
 
Agatha had watched all sorts of heroes as a child. She watched the colorful costumed heroes save the day again and again on TV. She loved seeing the bright colors and patterns, the flamboyant costumes with built in superpowers. How thrilling it would be to join their ranks, even at 80 years old. To help people, to make a difference - her heart swelled at the thought.
 
 Whisper rubbed against her ankles, as if reading her intentions. ""You're right, it's time we had an adventure, girl,"" Agatha said with a grin. 
 
She quickened her pace, her stiff joints barely registering the extra exertion. Ever since the mugging, her body had new life, new strength - as if it had been waiting all these years for a chance to be extraordinary.
 
At home, Agatha dug through her sewing box for bits of fabric. She would need a costume and a secret identity. With nimble fingers, she cut and stitched, refashioning her red cape and added leotard accented with gold. 
 
""What do you think?"" she asked Whisper, giving a twirl. The cat blinked her approval. Agatha affixed a golden mask and tucked her white hair under a hood. 
 
""Golden Girl,"" she announced. She felt powerful, purposeful. No one would guess an octogenarian lurked beneath this bold persona. It was time for her to embrace her destiny and use these newfound gifts to help others. Agatha set her shoulders and lifted her chin. She was ready.
","August 14, 2023 01:57","[[{'Jonathan Page': 'Very nice read!', 'time': '21:30 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Wendy M': 'A fun story about a feisty lady. Very engaging.', 'time': '19:24 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Golden girl indeed! Great story Jennifer thank you for sharing!', 'time': '07:59 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,l9laa3,Afternoons with my Unconventional Grandma,Morrene Hauser,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/l9laa3/,/short-story/l9laa3/,Fiction,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Funny', 'Happy']",9 likes,"
My grandma was unconventional, that’s for sure. She rode a motorcycle, she fished, she skiied, and she hunted. And, no, my grandma was not part of a biker gang. She just loved riding her motorcycle. 
I never understood as a child that my grandma was different from the other grandmas. That’s just the way she was, and I loved and accepted her for it. 
Grandma was tall with short gray hair, kind brown eyes and a great, big smile. Every time I hugged her, the overwhelming scent of fresh air and Listerine mouth wash filled my nostrils. Grandma gave the best hugs, and I always looked forward to seeing her.
There are so many special memories I have of spending time with my grandma when I was a young child, and each one puts a smile on my face, if not outright laughter. Grandma was a real character.  
One of my favorite memories I have of my grandma is when she picked me up on her motorcycle in the summers when I visited my dad and stepmother in Northern Wisconsin.  Sometimes Grandma would pick me up in her truck, and we would go to the Piggly Wiggly to buy groceries for one of our favorite dinners, Swedish meatballs.  But, more often not, Grandma came on her favorite mode of transportation, her motorcycle. I always knew when Grandma picked me up on the motorcycle that she would have one of my favorite dinners, pot roast, cooking at home in her oven. Grandma always sprinkled cinnamon on top of her pot roasts, and, let me tell you, those pot roasts were some of the best I have ever tasted.  
Before we left my dad and stepmother’s house, Grandma and I would decide on a place to go eat for lunch.  Sometimes it was a local hamburger joint called Mickey Lu’s, sometimes it was the A&W Root Beer Stand.  Before we got on her motorcycle, Grandma would wind a long, fuzzy scarf around my neck. Grandma didn’t want me to “catch a chill” as she called it. That scarf was thick and always made me sweat. But once we got on the highway, I always appreciated the warmth it provided as Grandma sped down the road, swerving from lane to lane passing cars in a hurry to get to where we were going.   
After we ate lunch, then it was on to Grandma’s house. Grandma lived in the small town of Marinette, about a half hour from my dad and stepmother’s house, on the Peshtigo River. Grandma’s yard was filled with colorful wildflowers, plants and many bird feeders. In the middle of the yard was a big shade tree with a little wooden bench built around it so people could sit and watch the river as it slowly floated by. On the banks of the river was a wooden dock. Tied to the dock was Grandma’s little metal fishing boat.
Once we got to Grandma’s house, we would go inside and check on the dinner. As we walked into the house, the heavenly aroma of pot roast greeted us, and my mouth watered in anticipation of that delicious meal. When Grandma was done checking the roast, she would turn to me and utter the words I most dreaded to hear:
“Now let’s go fishing!” Grandma would say with a big smile on her face. 
When I heard those words, my heart sank. I hated fishing. But I always put a stoic smile on my face because I loved Grandma and didn’t want to disappoint her. 
After we got in Grandma’s boat, she started the engine, and we motored out to the middle of the narrow river. Once Grandma dropped the anchor, she got our fishing poles ready. After I took the pole from her, I shivered in revulsion at the sight of the squirming worm impaled on the hook and quickly dropped it into the water. 
While Grandma got her pole ready, she would warn me to sit still and not make a sound. 
“If the fish hear us, they will swim away, and we won’t catch one,” Grandma explained. 
I looked at Grandma and solemnly promised her that I would not make a sound. Unfortunately, I never could keep that promise, and in no time at all I was wiggling in my seat and talking. I thought if I talked in a low voice, the fish wouldn’t hear us.  I talked about my pony, I talked about my new roller skates. I talked about my friends at school. Each time Grandma heard my voice, she would once again caution me to be quiet, but, unfortunately, the silence didn’t last long.
Often fish jumped in the river. And when I heard a splash, I was convinced it was a shark, and I would scream in terror. 
“Shark! Shark! GRANDMA!  THERE’S A SHARK IN THE RIVER!” 
Poor Grandma would jump when she heard me yell. I’m surprised she never dropped her pole in the water.
“You almost scared the life out of me, Honey! Remember, there are no sharks that live in Grandma’s river,” she would say as she patted her chest to calm herself down.
This wasn’t the first time I thought I saw a shark in the river. Unfortunately, no amount of reassurance on Grandma’s part would put my fears to rest, and time and time again this scene was repeated. 
I can’t tell you how many times I went fishing in the summers with my grandma, but each time we went, I had convinced myself that she had no idea I didn’t like it. Sometimes our fishing expeditions lasted 15 minutes, sometimes they lasted half an hour. It all depended on my capacity to sit still and not talk.      
When I was in my early teens, Grandma decided to take me fly fishing. Maybe she thought I would like that better.  
After we motored out into the middle of the river, Grandma grabbed a pole, put a worm on the end, and showed me how to cast the line far out into the water.  When it reached the desired distance, Grandma showed me how to push a button to stop the line so it would stop and drop into the water.    
As I took the pole awkwardly in my hands, I lifted it and cast the line. Unfortunately, I forgot to press the button to stop the line from going too far, and it landed in a tree on the banks of the river.  Grandma grabbed the pole from me and tugged and tugged trying to disentangle the line from the tree, but it was firmly stuck. Grandma sighed and shook her head in frustration as she started the engine and motored back to shore. 
I still remember holding my breath and saying silent prayers that Grandma wouldn’t fall in the water as she stood up in the wobbling boat and disentangled the line from the tree. Thankfully Grandma didn’t fall, but, let me tell you, she was not happy.
That was the last time Grandma ever took me fishing. 
After all these years, I still smile when I think about fishing with Grandma. As much as I tried to convince her that I liked fishing, she knew I didn’t care for it, but she continued to take me for years in the hopes that I would acquire a love for it as much as she did. Unfortunately, in her lifetime, that didn’t happen because she died when I was in my early 20s. And at that time in my life, sitting still for long periods of time was still hard for me to do.
If I could wiggle my nose right now, I would transport myself back in time to Grandma’s warm and loving kitchen with her at the stove preparing my favorite meal, pot roast with cinnamon on top and smooshed up strawberries for dessert. 
Now that I am in mid-life, I realize I am finally able to sit still and appreciate the calmness and serenity that comes from fishing. I just wish Grandma was here to take me. 
And in case you’re wondering, I never did pick up the love of motorcycles like Grandma had. I grew up with horses, and that’s my favorite mode of transportation! 
","August 16, 2023 13:32","[[{'Иляя Илчка': 'https://exampledomain.com/?u=XXXXX&o=YYYYY\n\nplease come in I beg you', 'time': '20:57 Sep 06, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Teresa Kubo': ""Your grandmother sounds like a real treasure. I'm glad you have so many lovely memories of her. Thank you for sharing some of those memories with us! Your writing is solid and there is a nice flow to your memoir."", 'time': '05:59 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Morrene Hauser': 'Thank you!', 'time': '12:17 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Morrene Hauser': 'Thank you!', 'time': '12:17 Aug 27, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,25br39,Greta's Greatest Gift ,Keelan LaForge,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/25br39/,/short-story/25br39/,Fiction,0,"['Fiction', 'Bedtime', 'Mystery']",9 likes,"
Nothing stood out about Greta. She lived in a little cottage with a welcoming glow in the windows. She seemed to lead a quiet existence. She kept her house tidy and did all her own chores. She was vivacious for an eighty-year-old, but not to the point in raised any eyebrows. She kept up the habit her mother had taught her, of baking a loaf of bread each day. She’d grown up in the Great Depression and she knew how to squeeze the best value out of a dollar. Her kitchen was simple, but it was always sparklingly clean. The aroma of bread browning in the oven filled the whole household. She had plenty of friends that dropped in for tea. She served them jam on bread and hot, milky tea. They never wanted to leave again; they were so taken in by her charming home and the warmth of her presence. It felt like a hug to an affection-starved soul. 
Most of Greta’s friends were friends she had had for decades. They had grown up in that very town. People didn’t tend to move around as much then, unless they had an unavoidable reason to do so. She’d known them in every stage of life, and they had inseverable bonds; but one of Greta’s friends was new. She had only known Marsha for a year or two. She was notably younger than her and she inspired interest from the surrounding community, because no one could quite figure out why she was there. However, they knew just how predictably kind Greta was. They supposed she must have been a niece of hers or a more distant family member that didn’t bear any resemblance to Greta. 
Marsha tended to arrive after dark more often than in daylight. She didn’t cause as much of a stir in the close-knit community whenever she did that. She could sneak into the cottage and talk to Greta in peace, shielded by the heavy, plush curtains. They talked all night, and Marsha often wondered when Greta slept and why she could do without it at her age. She had more energy than all the kids in the neighbourhood combined. 
Marsha pulled an envelope from her bag. She opened it in a way that made Greta brighten with excitement. Their next assignment had arrived. Greta loved the firm. She’d built it out of her own imagination, and it performed well. She didn’t tell people she knew that she was a private investigator. She didn’t want the neighbours to know what she was up to. She knew all too well how nosy people could be and that was the kind of late-life career choice that would prompt questions. Greta was brought up to believe that you shouldn’t ask someone questions unless the person chose to bring the subject up first, but she noticed that many others hadn’t received that instruction. By the dim light of the fire, she opened the envelope and began to read. Her eyes were sharp for her age. She didn’t like having to play the part of the ailing pensioner. She was anything but vulnerable. She could have run circles around most of the police force, but being an elderly bread-baking neighbourly type that pruned plants and performed small acts of kindness allowed her to live two lives, and that suited her. She kept her privacy and people assumed that she was just a regular grandmother. 
She skim-read the letter. It was from a lady that suspected her abducted sister was murdered by a family member, but the case had gone cold a long time ago. Greta sank back into her luxuriously soft cushions. She loved the supple seat on which she had got to the bottom of so many crimes and injustices. She spotted the details others missed; even skilled professionals that had badges and thought they had more brains than she did. She knew when to be quiet and when to observe. That was the secret of her success. 
Marsha got up and added another log to the smouldering fire. She prodded it with the poker, and it flared up, roaring with satisfaction. Marsha felt the shivers leave her skin. She’d walked there on foot – for a mile in the depths of Winter. Once she got inside Greta’s cottage, she never wanted to leave again. It was deliciously homely, and she felt like she was spending time with her own cherished but departed grandmother. She’d had eyes like an eagle too and she spent a lot of time in quiet observation, but she could cut through a conversation with a single sentence. She was as sharp as a serrated knife. Marsha smiled at Greta as she watched her studying the letter. She read and reread it with a precision that people didn’t tend to approach tasks with anymore. Marsha worked in a secretarial role that bored her on a daily basis, so she’d sought out something exciting on the side. Little did she know she’d end up being the sidekick to an eighty-year old private investigator – and one that had solved plenty of cases abandoned by the police. 
“We have to take this one on,” exclaimed Greta. “I can’t wait to sink my teeth into it.”
“Even though you have dentures?” Marsha teased.
“My dentures are sharper than most people’s original set,” she said, laughing to herself. 
That sense of humour was what made working with her such a delight. She had the ability to switch from serious investigator to humorous friend to kind, old bread-baking grandmother, and she never got tired. Marsha hoped she’d be as vivacious at that stage of life. 
The woman that had disappeared was only twenty years old and she was presumed missing by choice. The police had labelled her a runaway and given up on finding her years before. Greta turned the photo of the woman over in her hand, looking for writing on the back. No one really did that anymore, but someone had scrawled her name with a heart beside it. The heart had a jagged crack down the middle, and it was dated before the date of death. She was smiling in the photo; she had no idea what was coming to her then. Greta had always loved a good detective novel; the kind of thing you could dive into without budging an inch from your toasty armchair. Getting to solve real-life cases was her life’s dream and at the age of eighty, she realised, it was never too late to become someone else. She’d find the truth about the woman in the photo, and she thought she’d already found the first clue on the back of that photo. She decided to look into it the next morning, and then she’d make a loaf of her honey oat bread and finish the weeding. 
“It’s miraculous – the amount you get down. I hope I’m as lively at your age,” her next-door neighbour would say. 
“You have no idea,” she’d think to herself, and then with a smile, she’d offer them some of her best batch of bread. 
","August 13, 2023 07:42","[[{'Vid Weeks': 'I think Greta definitely has some mileage in her for a longer piece', 'time': '20:46 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Keelan LaForge': 'Thank you 😊', 'time': '06:41 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Keelan LaForge': 'Thank you 😊', 'time': '06:41 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': 'I like this old woman. Maybe she could solve a case in your future writings, sort of become the new Miss Marple. That would be great!\n\nCheers!', 'time': '11:34 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Keelan LaForge': 'Aw thanks so much Delbert. I’m glad you like her :)', 'time': '11:42 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Keelan LaForge': 'Aw thanks so much Delbert. I’m glad you like her :)', 'time': '11:42 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': ""'Tis a mystery in the making. And the baking.🍞"", 'time': '17:21 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Keelan LaForge': 'Thanks Mary 😊', 'time': '17:35 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Keelan LaForge': 'Thanks Mary 😊', 'time': '17:35 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,vsgwpg,"A Paladin, an Elf and an Old Man.",Jordan Rigley,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/vsgwpg/,/short-story/vsgwpg/,Fiction,0,"['Fantasy', 'Friendship']",9 likes,"
	The war hammer arced ferociously downwards, hurtling towards my chest. I shimmied my body sideways, quickly, and the blow scraped dangerously against my armoured shoulder with a high-pitched squeal.  The Goblin reared and started towards me again, brownish yellow eyes flashing menacingly beneath his rust covered helm. I staggered backwards half a step, momentarily frozen by his sudden appearance. My hand reached downwards, grasping clumsily for the hilt of my sword. Too slow. The hammer fell upon me again, even more viciously this time, and directly at my head. 
	I was furious. I had waited for this moment for months, and reaching this foul, dingy dungeon had not come without a fight. I had hacked through the bleached white hordes of re-animated skeletons and trudged slowly and agonisingly through putrid swamps. I had camped amongst the twisting roots of giant, crocodile infested mangrove trees. I had swatted mosquitos as big as dogs and chopped the head off a basilisk so massive that its teeth dwarfed even my own great sword. And here I had finally arrived, so close to my nemesis that I could smell him – literally, and I was about to die.  
 
	The Goblin King was close by, I just knew it. The air always smelled more rancid when Goblins were around, and the vile Kings stench was notoriously bad, even amongst their wretched clan. Somewhere in this festering hellhole he was hiding; his enormous, putrid body trembling in fear at the very presence of me, his would-be vanquisher, inside his lair. He was going to die; he knew it, and before now I had known it too. I was so confident in myself. I had never been stronger or better prepared than this. For months I had toiled, refining my skills. My proficiency with a sword had grown with every duel, and every drop of blood spilled on its shimmering iron blade seemed only to enhance its lethality. I had researched and practiced the arts of alchemy and magic for countless hours, concocting tonics and elixirs that could bring even the most deathly-ill back to health or embolden and strengthen the most frail and weak. And for what? To have my skull crushed, right here on this slimy green dungeon floor? By a GOBLIN? How many of these rancid creatures had I slain, I wondered. Fifty? A hundred? At some point I had stopped counting, lulled into a sense of security by the ease with which I could kill them. Dodge, parry, swing. Such a simple formula, tried and tested through at least two dozen brutal battles. In this corridor, however, that mattered little. I had no space to dodge, no shield with which to parry, and the corridor, with its high but narrow walls, made it impossible to draw my sword. I had been too casual, too relaxed and I was about to pay for it. I sighed to myself deeply and looked down, ready to feel the cold, merciless strike of the hammer. 
 
One final blow.  
 
I closed my eyes, clenched my fists tightly and hunched my broad shoulders, waiting for the final blow. 
 
Nothing.  
 
I cautiously opened one eye. Was I dead? I didn’t feel dead. I opened the other eye. I focused my vision, surprised by the sight of my own enormous feet beneath me. They were green and dirty, of course, as all Orcs feet were, and yet they were most definitely alive. I glanced up towards the shadow looming over me, still wincing at the expectation of certain death. He stood there, towering, great war hammer still huge and terrifying and far too close to my head for comfort. He was frozen. Stiff. As dead as a doorknob. A soft white light faded slowly away from him, pulling back towards, and then over, me. I turned to follow its trail and was met with an extraordinary sight. A High Elf; majestic and tall, with a flawless, milky complexion, stood before me. Her long golden hair fell effortlessly behind pointy ears, and the pure white leather adorning her body seemed to glow, radiating energy as if the sun itself had been my saviour. 
 
I opened my mouth dumbly, and tried to blurt out a thanks -  
 
“Thank y–” I was interrupted immediately by a piercing, high pitched trill in my ears. 
	 I jolted upright in my seat and swivelled towards the living room door, snapped rudely back to reality by the phone in the corner screeching urgently for my attention. 
 
*RING* *RING*  
 
I pushed myself away from my desk quickly and slightly too forcefully, so that the solitary lamp beside my monitor swayed dangerously for a long second, before settling again, casting a warm golden light across half of the room. I reached for my headphones and pulled them clumsily upwards, taking with them the small wire framed glasses which had, only moments before, occupied my face. 
 
“Bloody hell” I grunted as I rearranged the crooked spectacles, now fogged and smudged, back into position.  
 
	I took a breath and slowly lifted myself out of my chair, pausing in a sort of half-crouch as the sudden weight of my body caught my knees unaware. With one more groan, I stood upright and stepped carefully sideways, skirting my office chair and making my way as hastily as I could to the phone.  
 
“Hello?” I said loudly, before I had even placed the receiver to my ear. 
I was, at my age, slower to reach the phone than most people, and I had learned that every second counted when it came to stopping the caller hanging up before I answered. A loud and premature HELLO had saved me from a wasted trip to the phone on more than one occasion. This time, though, it did not. I was met with the disappointing hum of the dial tone, and, after one more hopeful, unreciprocated attempt at a greeting, I put the phone back in the cradle and hung up. 
I sighed deeply, smoothed the bottom of my green jumper neatly down and turned my attention back towards my office chair and computer. I had my strength back now, and strode confidently across the room this time, only to be stopped dead by a voice calling my name softly. 
 
“Tom...Tom...” It called. 
 
I looked wildly around the room, settling my gaze back on the phone. Was the voice coming from there? No, I thought, shaking my head. Even I knew how a phone worked. 
 
“Tom...Tom...” The voice came again, soft and yet somehow urgent.
 
 I scanned the room, stopping this time at the fireplace. There, on the mantlepiece above, was the face of my wife Anne, staring, bright eyed, back at me. 
 “Surely not...” I mumbled quietly to myself, as I reached an arthritic finger to my glasses, readjusting them to a more comfortable spot on my nose. I squinted hard at her face, studying her every feature. I knew she hadn’t spoken. Anne had died several years ago, and, as much as I wished it, she was not speaking to me via a near 40-year-old portrait. Yet I was certain I had heard a voice. I looked intently at her once more and turned back to the rest of the room. 
 
“Tom...Tom...MR TURNER!”  The voice was yelling now, loud and clear and desperate, and even I could hear its panicked tone.  
 
“What on earth is that” I said loudly, frustrated now, before the answer hit me suddenly, as my eyes swivelled back to my computer. MY HEADPHONES.  
I shuffled briskly around the edge of my desk, gripping the arms of my chair and lowering myself back down, a perfect reverse image of my earlier movement, albeit with even less grace; and with a heavy thud, I was down. I put my feet flat on the floor and scooted my chair closer to the desk, reaching frantically for my headphones. The voice was louder now, and in a split second it was everywhere. All other noises were extinguished, but for the constant calling of my name. 
 
“I’m here, I'm here!” I spoke to the deafening voice. 
 
“Oh my GOD Tom, we thought you had fallen!” Sarah shrieked, relief and annoyance in her now-familiar voice. 
 
“I was about to ring 999!” Josh said sternly, his deep voice a loud shock to my ears. 
I realised, with some embarrassment, that my abrupt and evidently loud journey to the phone had caused them some concern. 
 
“Oh!” I chuckled loudly, “It was just the phone, nothing to worry about!”  
 
“Nothing to worry about? It sounded like something to worry about, I almost had a blinking heart attack!” Sarah sighed, but even in her frustration I could hear the warmth and smile in her voice.  
 
“Who the hell rings at 9pm on a Friday anyway?” Josh grumbled, and I instinctively glanced towards the old clock on the wall, shocked at the amount of time that had passed since I last looked. Almost 3 hours. 
 
“I don’t know” I said, rather sadly, “they hung up before I got there. I was too slow again.”  
 
“Impatient buggers!-” He said, “-and anyway, next time, tell them Friday nights are for DUNGEON MASTER, and you’re not to be disturbed!” He laughed, and I imagined him swinging an invisible sword through the air as he spoke, the Mighty Paladin of Dungeon Master come momentarily to life. 
 
“Josh, I'm in my eighties” I chortled, “I don’t get many late-night calls anymore, and it’s been a long time since I've had a good conversation with anybody that isn’t a High Elf or a Paladin, so you will have to excuse my enthusiasm when the telephone rings!” 
 
“What more company could an Orc possibly need?” He asked, and I grinned at the silliness of it all. 
Sarah interrupted, her voice brimming with excitement.  
 
“Are you too finished nattering? We’re on a perilous mission here, don’t forget!”  
A muffled noise came in response, the unmistakeable sound of Josh pulling off his headset in a hurry. A toilet break, we knew.  
 
“That’s the third time tonight, how much can one boy drink” Sarah murmured, to nobody. 
	I stretched gratefully, extending my legs beneath the desk and linking my fingers together gently behind my head. Tufts of soft white hair brushed gently against my fingertips, and I smiled at how absurd my evening must have seemed to any outsider. Thomas Gerald Turner, Goblin slayer extraordinaire. A chance encounter almost two years ago had paired me with Sarah, the twenty-year-old waitress at a local gaming café, which I had erroneously mistaken for a regular cafe. This, and the subsequent meeting of her nineteen-year-old cousin Josh, had set in motion an unexpected change in my social life, which, at eighty years old, was in equal parts bemusing and exciting. Fast forward several months, many cups of tea, even more lectures on the difference between PvE and PvP and FPS and RPG and just about every combination of letters I could think of, and we had our party.  ‘The most,’ as Josh kindly put it, ‘lethal raiding party that also includes an eighty-year-old man in the WORLD.’  In truth, it had taken me the best part of two days to plug in the computer gifted to me by Sarah and get it started, but I had gotten there eventually, on my own. 
I smiled again. Absurd indeed, I thought. 
 
“I’m back, sorry” Josh panted down my ear, a few minutes later, and I straightened in my seat. I looked quickly around for my long-forgotten cup of tea, finding instead a slice of lemon cake set out to the side of me, bathed temptingly in the soft glow of the desk lamp, as if set out on the pass of a fancy restaurant just for me.  I resisted the urge to eat it, yet. 
 
“After you kill the Goblin King” I promised myself quietly. 
 
“What?” Asked the confused voices of Sarah and Josh in unity. 
I didn’t answer, and instead directed my eyes ahead at my monitor; it was time. 
 
 
	The frozen silhouette of the Goblin still loomed over me, and, even in death, he cut a menacing figure. I stood quickly and turned to face the High Elf. Behind her, clad in impressive, inky blue armour that shimmered like starlight in the glow of his torch, entered the Paladin. 
 
“Take this Tom, you need it more than I do” he said, in Josh’s voice.
 
He reached around to his back, and when his hand returned it held a glass bottle. Inside swirled a liquid; gleaming shades of reds and pinks danced lazily in constant motion that signalled one thing; Magic. A healing potion. I took the bottle gratefully, and in one swift move had placed it on my gnarled leather belt, ready to be used in a hurry.  I turned back to the Goblin, took one big step forward and kicked him, hard, in the chest. In an instant he was gone, shattered to a thousand shiny pieces that cascaded noisily to the floor, before vanishing completely a few moments later. We pressed on, and as the end of the corridor opened into a large, cavernous room, I drew my great sword from its sheath. I wasn’t going to be caught unaware again, I thought to myself.  
 
“He should be on the other side of that door” said the High Elf solemnly, in Sarah’s voice. 
 
I followed the direction of her gaze and crept towards the rotting wooden door. It was an ugly circular contraption, ill-fitting and with barely enough pitted brown surface to cover the jagged hole behind it. A lazy attempt at defence, and one the Goblin King will regret. I smirked to myself. My confidence was high, but I approached cautiously still; any lapse in concentration now would prove fatal. I turned to face my party, took a deep breath and, with a nod from the others, pushed open the door, stepped over the threshold and entered the dark beyond...
 
 
 
	“...Heal Tom, heal...” 
 
	I raised my great sword wearily in front of my eyes, blinking rapidly as dust and sweat and blood settled on my face. The Goblin King lunged again, an enormous blow. The twisted, dull black metal of his axe cut viciously through the air. I braced, held my breath and blocked the blow with my sword. The strike sent painful shockwaves through the blade and into my hands. I winced. 
Attack, I willed myself. 
I shuffled slowly to my left, feigning an overhead strike before clumsily pulling the sword back to my chest, lunging forwards with a piercing stab. Too obvious. He swatted it away lazily, a palpable look of disgust in his bloodshot eyes. I stumbled again, thrown off balance by the heft of my sword. I was exhausted. The Goblin King roared a booming, echoing laugh and turned his back to me with disdain. I felt fear rising in my chest, a vice-like grip that snatched the air from my lungs, quicker than my mouth could gulp more down.   
 
	“...heal Tom, heal!” I heard again.  
 
I focused my eyes beyond the hulking mass of putrid, slimy green flesh in front of me and saw the High Elf, climbing desperately to her feet as the Goblin King strode towards her. She was looking at me, at my belt...  
 
“THE POTION!” She yelled.  
 
Realisation hit me, and I reached quickly for my belt. My fingers grasped a cool glass bottle and pulled it loose. As I held it aloft, I was acutely aware of the state I was in. My huge, thick hand was a gross amalgamation of green skin and sticky, wet, red. I was losing health, and fast. I pulled the stopper from the bottle, glancing once more at the magical, swirling concoction inside. Its colour, I noted grimly, was not dissimilar to the blood flowing freely now down my arm; a warm river spreading slowly out across my wrist and hand, before dripping steadily off my fingertips. I drank. The potion was tasteless, but its effect was instantaneous. My legs felt stronger, and my great sword suddenly lighter. I stood upright, a renewed energy shooting like lightning through my body. I looked desperately towards the High Elf. She was dead. Still, her voice seemed to echo through the cavernous room, urging me forwards. 
 
“Help Josh!” it called. 
 
I heard a loud crash to my right and turned urgently to face it. The Paladin, his inky blue armour now scratched and dented, blocked another blow of the Goblin's axe with his shield. And then another, and another. He dropped suddenly to one knee, crushed beneath the weight of each blow. I stepped quickly forwards to aid him, the clash of steel masking my footsteps. I gripped my sword tightly and prepared my final blow.  
THUD.  
My legs gave way beneath me, drained instantly of their strength. My sword fell from my grasp, clattering on the rock floor as it was lost to reach. My eyes became heavy and blurred, and I could barely make out the shape of the Paladins body, cleaved in two, on the floor ahead of me. My head drooped slowly to the floor, and all was black. 
 
“BLOODY POISON!” Sarah yelled angrily, “I didn’t know his axe was coated in poison, we haven’t even got an antidote!”  
 
“He didn’t need poison to chop my Paladin in half!” Josh scathed. 
I sat, defeated, in my chair.  
 
“Sorry everyone” I mumbled, “I really thought we had the bugger then.” 
 
Sarah sighed loudly, frustrated. 
 
“What a night...” Josh said cautiously, “...Same time next week?”  
 
I slumped back and stretched my legs, glancing once more around the empty living room, and at Annes photograph. The smell of lemon cake wafted temptingly to my nose, and a grin came to my face. 
“Same time next week.” I said. 
 
","August 18, 2023 10:31","[[{'Marty B': 'Great action scenes! A man has found new friends through gaming. It as if the gaming is a magic elixir for Tom to get moving through life, especially after he lost his wife, and his legs are failing. \n\nWelcome to Reedsy!', 'time': '23:14 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,lm8otf,Crows,Shirley Heinz,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/lm8otf/,/short-story/lm8otf/,Fiction,0,['Adventure'],9 likes,"
It’s been over five years, since old Willie Odemann’s farm underwent development, but the crows keep coming—hoping the corn will come back, I think. When I was trying to take a shortcut a few weeks back, I saw some strawberries growing wild alongside that sixty-some apartment complex where mostly corn used to grow.
     But you can’t really take shortcuts no more. Everyone’s has to fence their little piece of land these days. Stingy folks really. Unless you can jump and climb like a kid, you can’t take shortcuts no more. At my age, you got to go around the fences. Truth be told, I know darn well that I could make better time going the way they want me to go. It’s the principle. Don’t like being told where I can go any more than I did when I was younger. Eight or eighty, it don’t matter. Once you are a rebel, you will always be a rebel. You just might look ridiculous sometimes, when you are my age and standing up for your principles.
    Like strawberries. Strawberries grow like weeds. They don’t care if apartment complexes try to get in their way. So, I’m thinking, that is why Willie Odemann’s strawberries keep on growing long after he is dead and buried. I learned about these rebel strawberries, taking my soda pop cans to the can-crusher. Yup; there isn’t a lot of money in pop cans anymore, and mechanic can-crushers are going extinct—but it’s the principle. I do my best to keep Mother Earth tidy and make an honest penny whenever possible.
    Some of these crows were larger, uglier, and more aggressive than in previous years. I noted that they seemed at home in the flock but could turn on their smaller brethren in the blink of an eye, resorting to cannibalism. 
    I had been studying the birds, since tulip time. At the end of June, I found a little brownish kid, his homely little dog and a gaggle of crows, including four giant red-faced ones, eating strawberries that were pushing cowlick-straight between the sidewalk cracks. Then, I saw berries growing everywhere. Next day, I set out to pick a pail for myself. Had my heart set on some strawberry-rhubarb pie. What a great deal, I thought, having rhubarb and now some strawberries too. But--dab burn it! —if there wasn’t a single scrap left. I never suspected the crows. Not right away.
    Crows just ain’t happy without corn. I wish I had a big backyard. I’d grow some corn. I wouldn’t take pot shots with Daddy’s old BB-gun neither, when the crow came calling. I’d say,
 “I know what it is like to get the short end of the stick; I know what it is like to have the rug pulled out from under you. Eat up, Crows!” 
  I love all God’s creatures, but Odemann’s crows are cantankerous creatures—smart and mean too. Bigger than most. Mutants, I suspect. A striking difference from those outside the Valley.
    Like any self-educated person, I get teased by people who think that I spend too much time on my subjects. That is where being a rebel helps. You get used to people thinking that you’re up to nonsense. Best thing is you don’t care very much. A self-taught mad scientist that is what I am!
    When I was a girl, I dabbled in everything from making ant poison soup to shaking a jar of bees to see how mad they could get. Like a lot of people back then, I didn’t think animals knew pain or had emotions—like revenge.
    I tried to catch a crow specimen to send down to Madison. That is what people do, when they find some freak of nature. I don’t care if it is an ugly caterpillar or a two-headed toad, people will advise you to send it down to the state lab for identification. Then I found out it costs money. Maybe this time I will charge them!
    I do have some background with crows. I remember Willie Odemann’s grandson Manny took a baby crow under his people-wing one year. Taught it all kinds of tricks, but I knew they were more mannerisms. Natural tendencies. Blackbeard the Crow would steal things out of men’s pockets and ladies’ purses. It could bark like and a dog and say “hello” in Manny’s voice. Too bad Blackbeard’s dog bark didn’t scare the barn cat that struck ’im down in his prime.
    I know crows are omnivores, but I never saw them hunting rabbits and squirrels until now.  When I saw the migrant boy again, he was alone kicking a soccer ball around that place where the strawberries had grown.  Speaking slowly and implementing rudimentary sign language, I asked him if the apartment people ate up all the fruit.
    “Crows—they ate the berries! And,” he started to sob, “Charley, too! The big ones. The Kings took my dog,” young Luis wailed, strangling the air with clenched fists. “Oh, Charley! Nobody believes me.” 
    “I believe you,” I tried to console him, but I could tell that if only one person in the world believed him, he wondered why did it have to be the strange old pop-can lady?  “Like a flock of bullies, those crows,” I told him. “Mad about their cornfield disappearing. Corn was kinda their God. The center of their world. When they saw that the land isn’t being planted, they got mighty ornery.
    “Put yourself in a crow’s place. People can go to the store to get corn any ole time. Get it on the cob, in a can, in a freezer package. We take it for granted that we can eat corn 365-days a year. Three times a day, if we wanted to. Not crows. These mutant crows ain’t afraid to get even.”
    The boy, Luis, had stopped crying. I was throwing a lot of words at him, and it seemed like he understood. I imagined the puzzled look on his little dog, as the hunter became the hunted. I think Charley may have been just as surprised as Blackbeard the Crow was when his bark didn’t scare the barn cat many years ago.
    It isn’t right for crows to be eating little boys’ dogs. I promised Luis that I would do what I could to put an end to their carnage. 
    I tried to warn folks. The five o’clock news had recently reported that a kid on garbage detail at the Burger Boy was badgered by a flock of crows.  Around July 4th, the fireworks and commotion sent them into a lull of inactivity for nearly seven days. A welcomed reprieve for those of us who knew about them.
    I never finished high school. I married and started a family, when Earl got back from the War. But I have always read a lot and did my best to know about world affairs.  I, particularly, enjoy nature, and I have been keeping notes on these mutant crows—Odemann’s Urbana Corvus. That’s what I named ’em. Luis and I plotted to trap a live specimen, but we had to be selective. We needed to zero in on what we dubbed the King Crows. The ones that we knew had taken Charley.
    Soon after our plans were drawn, a respectable man of science conveniently came to town. Ornithologist Dr. Jefferson Early from the state university was here to advise city government about a mysterious die-off of Canada geese on our part of Lake Winnebago. 
    My nephew Russell drives me once a week to get groceries or sometimes more—if there is a funeral or a special research fieldtrip. Good thing for me that Russell still isn’t married, because I don’t know what his wife would say to this. Russell is a dentist. He just hasn’t found the right teeth-cleaning girl to settle down with. I told him there is no rush. I had two husbands. They’re both dead already. 
    So, because he is so nice and because he has his own business, Russell agreed to make an extra trip to take me down to city hall to see the bird man. I had not told him about the bird man, but Russell snickered a little when he saw my knapsack overflowing with my field notebooks, camera and binoculars. I promised to take a taxicab home this time. He seemed to believe it, but I would never waste my money on a highway-robber. I would worry about getting home later.
    Betty, the city government desk clerk, told me that the mayor was at the Senior Citizen Center for breakfast. “Helen,” she added, “have you tried the Center?” She knew the darn answer. “You should give it a try? They do lots of fun things there.”
    I bit my tongue. I always thought that Russell and Betty might make a good couple. But line dancing, chatty luncheons and rummage sales weren’t my thing. 
    “I’m here to see Dr. Jefferson Early,” I told her.
    “I believe he’s at Grant Park,” she said, checking her desk calendar. 
    “Dab burn it! Russell’s gone. He just dropped me off. Did you see, he has a convertible now?”
    “Really?” Betty sighed.
    “Yeah, a topless car. Messed my hair. Don’t you just hate riding in topless cars?”
    “I would love it,” said the thirty-something divorcee. “It would be fun.”
    “If you really think so,” I winked, “I could ask Russell to take you for a ride.”
    “Oh, I don’t think he’d take a stranger.”
    “You’re no stranger,” I said. “If I’m not talking to you about Russell, I am talking to Russell about you. “Betty blushed. “You know I think that you two would make a nice couple. You probably admire a man who takes care of his kin. But right now, I need to get to Grant Park because I don’t have a ride.”
    “One of the park-and-rec guys can take you,” she offered, flagging one down.
    Pete was never happy about acting as my personal chauffeur. Truth be told, he isn’t my first choice, but beggars can’t be choosers. He asked me if I was still chasing crows. I didn’t appreciate his sarcasm. At the park, Pete barely came to a stop. He mumbled that he had more important things to do.  
    “That’s Early over there,” he said, stabbing the air with his finger. “The tall, skinny man with the health department guys.” 
    Pete cleared his throat, waiting for me to gather myself and my things but didn’t bother to help expedite the process. I thanked him and thought about making him some special laxative-laced brownies for his trouble.
    “Doctor Early,” I called to him.
    He was a skinny man with a boyish face. 
    “With whom do I have the pleasure?”
     “Helen Leavens Hochholzer.” I could see that it was a lot for him to digest, so I added, “You may call me Helen.”
    “Helen,” he nodded. “How can I help you?”
    “Hi. Rick!  Hi, James! ”  I waved to the health department men. “Doctor Early, I know that you are here to study the Canadian geese—“
    “Canada,” he corrected me. “Canada geese. Most people call them Canadian, but that is not correct,” he softened the blow.
     “Canada geese,” I submitted, oddly in wonder that I was in the majority for once. “This kill happens every now and again,” I offered. “It’s the dandelion poison. Every now and again the summer help doesn’t read the directions right, and our city, accidentally, thins the flocks. I told the city hall folks about it. I wrote the editor. I even wrote you people in Madison. “
    “Really?” Jefferson Early raised his brow.
     “What’s even more interesting,” I advised, “is the crows here.”
    “Crows?” exclaimed Early, the furrows in his brow suddenly aging his face.
    “We grow ‘em big here, sir. Big as turkeys—they could feed a family of four! Mutants. Maybe they’ve been eating fish by the nuclear plant. I don’t know for sure yet,” I said, retrieving my red stenography pad. ” I’ve been keeping a journal. I have some feathers comparisons.  These are the ones belonging to the largest of the Odemann Urbana Corvus—this new sub-species.”
     I thrust forward the drawing that I had made in the field. 
    “These birds have lips and a beak?” Somehow, I had missed this embarrassing drawing mistake. “Purplish crown, yellow eyes—lacking pupils? According to this measurement scale, they are nearly two feet tall?”
    “That part is right. Forget the smile and the eyes with no pupils. Look I’m no artist, but the yellow eyes and the size is true to life.”  I fumbled through the pad. 
    My gnarly left hand was in a hinderance, and the Walgreens photographs fluttered to the ground. The scholar quickly retrieved them, scanning them with his eyes as he stood. 
   “These are ravens,” he uttered.
   “No, sir. I thought that at first too. Look at the beak, the neck, the tail! All of these are characteristics of the Common Corvus. Not a large Corvid or a giant Turdus Merula?” He seemed impressed, looking closely at the photographs. 
    He examined the plums inside a clear plastic freezer bag. “Some of these feathers interest me,” he acknowledged. “Perhaps if you give me your name and number...”
    “Please, Doctor!”   I directed to him to a picture of one of the King Crows. His jaw dropped. “Put the Canada Geese and the dandelion poison to bed, and I will share my find with you. We will march to Madison. We need to squelch their numbers while we can.” I could feel my hot-headed German ancestry coming to the forefront. “These crows are wicked, dog-eaters!
    “Dr. Early,” I insisted, “these birds are killing family pets as we speak. Please, I can take you to them. You can see for yourself.”
    “Helen—you have found something extraordinary. These definitely are not ravens,” he nodded his head, and directed the health department people to drive us to what remained of the Odemann homestead just north of the city limits. 
    This was extremely convenient, because my home was in one of the four units that comprised Willie Odemann’s farmhouse. Near remnants of an old apple orchard, we happened upon the scene of Luis with his new friends, from the apartment complex, throwing sticks and stones at the birds. Luis was sitting on a squawking cardboard box.
    “These aren’t ravens,” Dr. Early said in a soft, far-off voice.
     “Exactly!” I agreed.
     “They’re not common crows.”
     “Precisely!”
     “These are black Caracaras!” he shouted with glee. “Remarkable!”
      It was a case of gross misidentification, and I was a little embarrassed. I had not considered comparing the King Crows to the Black Caracaras of northern South America. Turns out, Luis and I had found four of six glossy black falcon birds that had unceremoniously escaped from the Milwaukee Zoo. It was pandemonium and publicity, securing our birds. The other two were never reported found, and surely would not survive a Wisconsin winter.  
    While I did not find a new mutant sub-species of crow, Luis and I made the front pages of many national newspapers. We even were flown to the Big Apple to guest star on early morning and late-night TV shows.
    When the story had run its course, the thrill of the experience lived on in both Luis and me. The next spring, fewer crows came back to roost in what was left of an outbuilding that stood in ruins on the remaining  Odemann acreage marked for development. Like us, the Corvus diehards likely remembered the excitement of the King Crows.                                               
 
","August 13, 2023 20:31","[[{'Shirley Heinz': 'Whoops...I liked myself! Minus 1 point!  Then I commented on myself! Minus 2 points!  Arrrgh, but I am not an octogenarian yet!', 'time': '23:32 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Wendy M': 'I like your story, Helen feels very real from your description and dialogue. An enjoyable read.', 'time': '12:34 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,36qjpm,How Not to Guard a Library,Mary Anderson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/36qjpm/,/short-story/36qjpm/,Fiction,0,"['Fiction', 'Mystery', 'Funny']",9 likes,"
Elusive. Be pragmatic. Be calm. Stop the screaming in your head. Not here. Yes, here. YES, HERE! Convince yourself. The manuscript is here. Somewhere here since Edison had brought her to this part of the stacks. Elusive manuscript.“I am too old for this,” Maizy said to the library cat. She let go of her walker and stretched her arms up past her white hair towards the ceiling. Dressed in old blue jeans and a t-shirt announcing that cats rule, she was fastidiously made up and had red painted nails that complemented her lip color.Edison yawned before strolling towards the shelves where she stood. He unsheathed his claws and swiped just as Maizy swooped him up, tottering a bit under his weight. He growled in protest, but sheathed his claws and his tortoiseshell body went limp. Maizy stooped to look at the book Edison had chosen on the bottom shelf, shuffling her feet slightly apart to help keep her balance,Setting Edison on the floor, she gripped the third shelf from the bottom and leaned even farther over. Sigh. A reference guide to rodents. False alarm. He just wanted to look at the pictures. Then, peering closer, she saw a wad of paper lying across the top of it and the surrounding books. Maybe? She pulled the mice book out and opened it for Edison before reaching for the crumpled papers.Maizy gently tugged until the papers slid from the bookcase. Breathing heavily, she pulled herself back upright, carefully turned around, and set the papers on the seat of her walker. Grabbing the bars, she walked, thump and step, thump and step, to the table where she had left the stolen keycard and her tote. Sliding gratefully if not gracefully into a chair, she picked up the crumpled wad of papers and smoothed them out. Disappointment. She looked reproachfully at the cat.“And just why would you want me to read a selection of short stories cut from a book?” Maizy demanded. “All the words on one edge have been cut off so I can’t read it anyway,” she added petulantly.She sighed. Looked toward the shelf. Looked at her walker with distaste. That elusive manuscript. Looked at the wad of paper and, swiveling around, looked towards the shelf where the book the pages belonged to should be. Even farther than the shelf the manuscript should have been on. Her eyes narrowed in contemplation. She thought. Thought long and hard about hiding places.Pushing herself up, Maizy grabbed the walker and thump stepped her way over to the distant bookshelf. Took a minute to find the slightly misshelved book, balanced carefully to free her hands, pulled it out and opened it. She gasped. Not the manuscript. Not paper of any kind. A knife. A bloody knife about four inches long in the cavity made by removing the pages. Great. Now she had two tasks. Find the manuscript. Find the bloody body. She turned and stared woefully at the cat who was still perusing his new favorite book. She watched as he delicately licked a paw and turned a page.Maybe the manuscript was with the body. Worth hoping. Worth doing. Yes, this was worth doing. She glanced at Edison as she thought. He had stretched out across the book and was eyeing her.“I haven’t given up,” she assured him. The tip of his tail vibrated. Then he bolted up onto four paws, scampered across the laminate floor that separated them, and joined her in scanning the shelves in front of them. Misshelved book? What was in its place? What should be in the place she found it? Edison meowed, stretched up, and butted his head against a book on the second shelf from the floor. Maizy pulled it out.“A guide to gardening?” she mused questioningly.The cat strolled over to the windows and jumped up on the sill. Thump and step, thump and step. She joined him in the moonlight pouring through the panes. The Wi-Fi Garden was eerily lit with small lights along the passage between benches. Moonlight threw trees’ shadows menacingly over a playscape. The spinner had a figure hunched over on the bench. Maizy sighed. Probably the dead body. Why was there always a dead body? Well, this would be the last one she would find. She hoped.“We need to see if the manuscript is there, too,” she told the cat, who seemed to nod in agreement.She looked at the door to the garden and then over at the desk where the alarm panel was hidden under the return shelf. Thump and step, Thump and step. Repeated until she reached the desk. She should have turned off all the door alarms when she came in. Not just the front. Done now.Thump and step, Thump and step, Passing the window on the way back to the door she glanced out. The spinner was empty.“Oh my,” she said to the cat, who was looking expectantly at the door. “I guess that wasn’t the dead body after all.” Unless it was an undead body. Maizy really didn’t want to deal with zombies tonight. The cat was enough of a challenge. And there was the bloody knife, too. There was a knock at the garden door.Should she unlock the door? First, she decided, a cup of tea. “Let them know I’ll be a minute, please,” she asked the cat, who jumped up to the window and tipped its head.Thumping and stepping back behind the counter and into the staff kitchen, she heated water in the microwave and made two cups of tea. She set them on a tray and put the tray on her walker seat. Making her way slowly—more of a glide than a thump—back to the garden door so as to not spill, she unlocked the door. A silver haired woman a few inches taller and about twenty five years younger than Maizy held it open for her and she and the cat made their way to one of the benches. Maizy would never drink in the library proper.The woman sat on the bench next to her and Maizy beamed. “Lorna, what a surprise.”“Long time, no see,” Lorna said. “I’ve missed you, Aunt Maizy.”Maizy passed her a cup of tea. “Do you know anything about a bloody knife?” she inquired politely.“Here?” Lorna asked, with a lifted left eyebrow.“Yes, here,” Maizy answered with a sigh. Edison mewled softly. Lorna tipped her head forward to stare at him.“Edison?” she asked. He jumped in her lap in answer.“Oh my,” said Lorna softly, “You must be looking for the manuscript.”“Yes,” Maizy said sadly. “But it isn’t where I thought it would be. Only the pages cut out of a book. That book had the knife in it. How did you find this library?”“Michael told me he had seen Edison here,” Lorna said as she stroked the cat.“Really?” asked Maizy. Her eyes narrowed. Her lips pursed.“Yep. He’s been visiting libraries non-stop.” Edison purred and nodded.“Did he mention a dead body?”Lorna shifted uneasily. She glanced over her shoulder at the dumpster just visible over the fence in the back of the parking lot. Edison jumped down and padded over to the fence.Maizy sighed, “Did Michael take the manuscript?”“Yes,” admitted Lorna. “He told me I had to take care of the body before he would give it to me.”Maizy was irritated. Having a serial killer in the family was an annoyance she could have lived without. Especially one as careless as Michael. Even though he usually had a good reason to pick his victim. Lorna was always having to clean up after her cousin if Maizy wasn’t around to do it. Why hadn’t Michael called her?“He wanted to read the manuscript to make sure Edison was the last,” explained Lorna, reading Maizy’s mind. “I don’t think he realized that you had already identified the library Edison was at.”“Social media has made my job so much easier,” murmured Maizy. “As soon as I saw a picture of the cat they call Monster on their webpage, I knew it was Edison. You and Michael and all the rest were so much harder to find.”“What next?”“I need the manuscript,” Maisy informed her. “That is the last step. Then Edison will be free to live his life.”“Then let’s take care of the body and go tackle Michael,” Lorna suggested. Edison crooned a feline agreement. All three turned to face the dumpster.Michael let Lorna into his room at the hotel nearest the library. The manuscript had been shredded, but he didn’t tell her that. Once he had read it and understood the ramifications of Maizy getting her hands on it, he knew he was going to have to run from her for the rest of his life. But first, he wanted to hear whether he would be running from the law, too, if Lorna hadn’t taken care of the body.“The manuscript,” she demanded as soon as the door started to swing shut behind her. Thumping and stepping sounded from the hall and Lorna caught the door and held it open. Maizy entered the room, her gaze fixed on her son.“Hi Mom,” Michael said uneasily, running a hand over his almost bald scalp before hitching his pants up from where they had slid down under his pot belly.“Where is the manuscript?” she asked sweetly. “Edison needs to be freed from the library.”He couldn’t stop himself from glancing at a shredder by the desk in the corner.“Shredded?” she asked. He nodded.Thump and step. She made her way over to the shredder, sat down on the walker bench, and took the lid off the thing. Pulling a book of matches from her tote, she struck one and dropped it in the thick plastic bin. The paper would burn up before the plastic melted down. She looked at Lorna.“Bring me a cup of water from the bathroom, please.” Lorna complied and, after stirring the ashes of the burned manuscript, Maizy poured the water over them.“I had no idea that writing down the spell would send every one of you to a different library. It’s just that my memory isn’t as good as it once was, and I wanted to make sure that our family tradition of taking turns protecting the books at our library branch continued after I was gone. I certainly wasn’t going to reactivate the manuscript.” She looked reproachfully at her son.Michael shook his head like he would never have thought that. Maizy sniffed. Lorna diffused the tension by opening the door. “Let’s head back to the library.”Edison was waiting for them. A small child of about six, he immediately hugged Michael. “Gramps!” he exclaimed. “I did my job keeping the mice out of the books!”Maizy smiled at them both fondly as Lorna looked on. She turned to Michael. “Just what did the person whose body ended up in the dumpster do to become the focus of your wrath?” she asked.“She was tearing pages out of a recipe book. A library recipe book!”Maisy sighed. This from a man who had hollowed out a book to hide a bloody knife. Maybe she should limit him to digital library book protection in the future.
","August 14, 2023 00:18",[]
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,isi8x3,Miss Charlotte's Specialty,Luca King Greek,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/isi8x3/,/short-story/isi8x3/,Fiction,0,"['Funny', 'Fiction']",9 likes,"
A purple book upon her lap, Charlotte was nodding off in the winged armchair by the open French doors when Alys Jones, the generally put-upon cook, cleaner and nursemaid of Brynderwen Hall came into the library, prodded her on the upper arm, alerting her to the presence of a young man. “Visitor for Mister Koenig, a Mister Nigel Brandford”, she said loudly into Charlotte’s good ear. Alys turned to the pasty-faced young man with the thinning hair in the ill-fitting, rumpled, and shiny gray suit who stood on the threshold of the library, over heating in the summer warmth, and looking very much out of place, “Mister Koenig won’t be long, Mister Brandford. Such good news!”, she placed her hand solicitously on his arm. “They had it coming to them, that’s for sure!” she said quietly, in a conspiratorial tone. He acknowledged this with a nod and smiled at her as she bustled out of the library, on her way to the kitchen to prepare tea.Miss Charlotte examined the visitor with a blank, unoccupied face.  The light of an early June afternoon flooded in from the gardens and fell upon her papery-thin skin, its warmth doing nothing to lessen her ghoulish appearance.Brandford raised his hand unsurely, “Hi, I’m Nigel”. She did not respond, so he stood awkwardly by the door evaluating the options of a visitor when entrusted to the company of what seemed to be a living corpse. The library, though almost as large as his bachelor flat in Chester, was crammed full of expensive-looking old stuff, and offered neither refuge nor repose. Books, mostly leather-bound, lined the walls, a grand piano, partially buried beneath piles of newspapers and magazines stood in one corner of the library. One usable chair was occupied by an antique birdcage, another by a broken gramophone. The mantle over the grand fireplace was crammed with vases and marble busts, glass baubles, and a large brass clock, all gathering dust. Most disconcerting of all, in the middle of the room, a stuffed hyena leapt at Brandford, caught mid-leap with its fangs bared in a vicious rictus snarl, and made more fearsome by time and abuse: a torn ear, a vacant eye-socket, and a broken foreleg that twisted out unnaturally to the side. There was nowhere to sit.   He was startled when the corpse came alive and spoke to him.“What brings you to Brynderwen, Mister Brandford?” said Charlotte, pointing at a jumble of children’s toys, “just push that stuff aside and sit down on the sofa, if you like”. With her other hand, she removed the purple book from her lap and placed it precariously on the unoccupied corner of a side-table, next to a primitive looking wooden duck decoy. “I’m sorry, I thought you were…”, Brandford wasn’t entirely sure what to say next.“Deaf?” suggested Charlotte, “…or dead, I suppose?”. She put on a pair of black and gold cat eye spectacles and examined him carefully. Brandford looked embarrassed. He made space for himself on the sofa, opposite Charlotte, put his briefcase between his feet, and attended to this strange old woman. Dressed in a vintage of clothing once found on Carnaby Street in the 1960s; he sensed that she must be very rich or very famous. “I work for Muckler and Sons, the Debt Collectors in Chester”, he said, attempting to give her his full attention, but the Hyena, frozen in eternal pain, seemed to be scrutinizing him with its one good eye.“Oh, don’t mind that old thing. Unlike me, it is very dead!” said Charlotte, cheerfully. “It was one of my father’s most treasured possessions, a striped Hyena, very rare. The beast escaped from Chichester Zoo back in the summer of 1974. My late father, alert to the danger it posed to the fair folks of Sussex, lured the beast into a remote area of the South Downs, where, just as it leapt at his throat, he shot it with a .416 Rigby elephant rifle! And the rifle, would you believe, was once owned by the Archbishop of Urgell, Prince of Andorra, a known mid-20th-century philanderer, who sired five children out of wedlock, one of whom….” Charlotte ran out of breath and out of contiguous plot. “I’m sorry, what did you say was the purpose of your visit?”, she asked, breathless.The question relieved Brandford of the effort of following Charlotte on her epic journey, “Sorry, but I’m not at liberty to say”, he said, self-importantly, “private matter for the attention of the Koenig’s, you understand. It concerns money”.“Intrigue and subterfuge!” exclaimed Charlotte, “Tell me more, dear boy!”, she lowered her voice, as if sharing a secret, “The Koenigs have a dark past”, she said grimly, “artists, writers, pharmacists, and travelers. Lacking the moral compass of the Carringtons”, she concluded smugly.Brandford, thoroughly confused, looked around the room, trying to escape her unyielding gaze. His eye leapt from one inexplicable object to another, but there was no escaping the scrutiny of this ancient crone, nor the one-eyed Hyena to which his attention was constantly drawn.Brandford lowered his voice, leant in towards her, “Let me be frank with you Miss…”,“Carrington. Charlotte Carrington, but they call me Aunt Lottie”.“It concerns the collection of a debt”, he sat back in the sofa, and held his hands out to either side of him, a gesture that invited her to consider the room, the grand old house, and the estate that encompassed every acre of garden, farmland, woodland and lake, everything visible through the windows, even the pine-covered hill in the distance. “In short, it concerns the very future of Brynderwen Hall itself!”Charlotte’s expression was unchanged, but her lively and sometimes scatterbrained mind was running headlong to a dark place of Dickensian squalor. At eighty-three years of age, an ancient spinster could not ask for a more comfortable sinecure in her dotage. To be forewarned is to be forearmed, she thought.She leaned in towards him, “You are aware of course that today is the anniversary of the tragedy, I suppose? “, she paused for maximum dramatic effect, “I must say that it is bold of you to confront Koenig on this day, of all days”.Brandford, a little alarmed, denied knowledge of the tragedy and urged her to continue. He edged closer to her.“You may have noticed that the French doors are open?”, she said, which Brandford acknowledged with a nod, “And for that matter, you can see atop that bookstand the rare edition of Wesley’s Greek Mythology, opened at the story of Echo and Narcissus, marked by the dried flowers?”, she said, pointing. Brandford nodded again. “Well, it was on this very day - the Feast of Saint Adjutor, by the way - three years ago that the tragedy occurred. Artists, such as the Koenigs, can be consumed by passion, you understand, the muse can strike at any time, and their actions can be impetuous.”With the pretense of understanding, Brandford uttered an affirmation.She continued, “Alexa and little Charlie, loving wife and only son of Koenig, apparently inspired by this story of Narcissus, draped themselves in the lace antimacassar doilies that once adorned these chairs” Charlotte pointed at their absence, “and proceeded to the lake so that lovely Charlie, Lor’ Bless His Soul, could gaze upon his own quite perfect countenance, reflected in the waters thereof”. “Well, we can only guess at what then happened, and perhaps it is best that no one bore direct witness to the terrible turn of events? We only know, owing to careful forensic examination of the footprints and scratch marks in the treacherous mud at the edge of the lake, that the beautiful child slipped, dove – or was pushed - into the water, whereupon the weight of his clothing dragged him into the watery depths. The mother, most likely driven by maternal instinct, is thought to have plunged into the water to save poor Charlie, only to be overcome by cold or exhaustion”. Charlotte paused, breathless, studying Brandford for the effect that the story had upon him. Too much was not enough.“Their bodies were never recovered, despite an extensive search. Mother and child, in silent repose for eternity“, Charlotte sighed, “ I am sure you must have read about it in the newspapers or seen it on the television. Even Teledu Cymru followed the story, in Welsh no less!”. Brandford, spellbound and aghast, was not aware of the story, whether in English or Welsh, “What of the father?”, he asked with deep concern.“Well, of course, Koenig was devastated by the loss! Anger followed disbelief, as it invariably does, but instead of a graceful descent into the healing morass of grief and reconciliation, the poor man, a shadow of his former self, taciturn and emotionally unreachable, found solace in the horrifying fallacy that his wife and child were still alive! Daily he makes his sorry way to this very room, after lunch, stands forlorn on this corner of this rug and gazes upon the lake, patiently expecting beautiful Alexa and lovely Charlie to emerge from the lake, come walking up the lawn, wearing lace shrouds, flowers in hand”.Brandford’s gaze turned to the gardens, the lush green lawn that sloped down the hill to the copse by the lake, shrouded in a chilling mist despite the warmth. The library door opened, Brandford snapped out of his reverie.  Koenig ambled into the room, disheveled, unshaven, mumbling to himself, dark rings beneath his eyes. Nigel stood and nervously greeted him with an outstretched hand, which Koenig ignored in a desultory way, as if too weary to go through the motions of a courtesy. “Where is Alexa. She should be back by now”, Koenig said, peering through the open doors down at the lake, “She and Charlie are thick as thieves these days, I scarcely see them around here during the day, and look at this place!”, Koenig gave the Hyena a light kick.Charlotte gave Brandford a quick “told-you-so” look, which Brandford reciprocated with a “I see what you mean” nod.“Mister Koenig, I am Nigel Brandford, of Muckler and Sons!”“Mr. Muckler, I do apologize!”, said Koenig returned to his senses. “Miles Koenig”, he tapped his chest in the locale of what Brandford perceived to be a broken heart, “Alys mentioned that you and a Mr. Brandford were visiting. I do hope that Charlotte has kept you both suitably entertained?”, said Koenig bowing slightly in the direction of the ancient crone.“It’s Brandford actually, just me”, said Brandford. Looking to steer conversation away from the tragedy, “she just told me the tale of the Hyena”, he said.“Oh, that old thing!” said Koenig, “We bought it at a flea market in Oswestry. Strange old fellow claimed that he killed the beast with a spoon while on glamping trip in Tanzania. Frankly, we have our doubts”, Koenig seemed to chuckle. “I hope you don’t mind the open doors on a day like this”. Brandford looked at Charlotte, grimly assessing a man in his prime but also in the grip of a manic delusion.“Alexa, my wife is exploring the lake with my young son, Charlie, both dressed as ancient Greeks. A nonsensical but romantic reenactment of the moment when Narcissus falls in love with his own reflection! They’ve been reading the Wesley version of the tale, a bit macabre, I’m afraid… Narcissus falls into the water and drowns! Perish the thought, eh?”, Koenig seemed pensive.Brandford was appalled, it was pure horror, to be here on this day, in presence of this damaged man, a bereaved father, sent insane by loss. He gamely tried to change the subject again, “Mr. Koenig, I am here to discuss a matter of some importance. It concerns money, a large amount of money”. Koenig seemed distracted still. “I realize the timing is not good…”, Brandford trailed off into silence, unsure of how to proceed.“Money? Money you say. “Well, you will probably want to take that subject up with my wife, when she returns”, said Koenig absently, “She is the brains of the operation, so to speak”, he stifled a yawn.Charlotte shared a knowing look with Brandford, the tilt of her head seemed to question the proprietary of engaging in commerce at this time, in these circumstances, which he acknowledged by preparing to rise from the seat.“Here they are now!”, Koenig exclaimed, excitedly, pointing down towards the lake! “My god they look soaking wet!”.Brandford shuddered, and turned towards Charlotte with a look that was intended to convey the impression of sympathetic comprehension, but Charlotte was staring out of the window, her mouth agape, horror-struck. Brandford felt the icy grip of fear seize him, he scrambled to his feet and followed her gaze. At the end of the garden, emerging out of the mist and from under the trees, a waif-like woman draped in a lacy shawl, wet and clinging to her narrow frame, was walking with a very pale boy in a dripping lacey toga, carrying a bunch of broken daffodils in his hand. Water seemed to be dripping from their ethereal forms onto the grassy lawn as they made their ghostly way up to the house and toward the patio and the open French doors. “Christ almighty!” said Brandford, grabbing his briefcase and making hastily for the door, ignored by Charlotte and Koenig, but not by the beady-eye Hyena. “I am so sorry… maybe”, he tripped over the Hyena. “Mister Muckler… the lake… “, incoherent, he slammed the library door behind him, ran down the corridor, through the hall, and out of the front door, unescorted.“We’re back!” said Alexa Koenig, smiling broadly,” and I must say, we’ve had quite the adventure, haven’t we darling?” she turned to her son who was brandishing a faded daffodil like a sword and was making an annoying squealing noise. “Was that Brandford, just rushed out of here?”, she quizzed.“Oh Brandford!” said Charlotte, “the debt collector. A nasty piece of work”, she smiled smugly.“Nasty piece of work”, mimicked Charlie, thrashing at his great aunt’s stockinged leg with a floppy daffodil.“Brandford? Our Muckler agent?”, Alexa looked a bit perplexed, even upset, which removed the smile from Charlotte’s face. “It’s taken weeks to get the poor man to visit”, she turned to Koenig, “Did he at least leave the documentation behind? Or explain how the settlement will be credited to our accounts?”Koenig professed ignorance. Unseen, Charlotte re-oriented the blue book so that its title was not legible to the casual observer. She also gave little Charlie a sharp kick in the shin.Alys Jones burst into the room, “What on earth happened with that nice young Mister Brandford?”, she said, “I just watched him run out of the house through the hedgerow, and directly into the fence! Gareth is tending to a nasty gash on his forehead!”. Koenig turned to Charlotte, “Aunt Lottie… care to shed some light on this matter?”Charlotte, seldom at a loss for words, was confounded by the unanticipated change in the narrative. Of the few options available to her, feinting seemed like the best. She slumped to one side and her glasses fell from her nose onto her lap. Drama, if indeed that is what she had authored, should dissipate with time and ambiguity.+++Brandford, though banged up, bandaged, and still somewhat incoherent, had happily debriefed Koenig and Alexa on the purpose of this visit, less happily, he related the brief and confusing time he’d spent in the company of Charlotte. He was dispatched to Chester in a taxi.Later that evening, dinner took on the look and feel of a court martial. Charlotte picked away at the gristly mutton and overdone peas in a desultory manner, reflecting on Alys’s limitations as a cook, and her own limitations as a storyteller, and the exculpatory possibility that the one feeds the other. “Well, the Hyena story, was just convoluted drivel”, said Koenig, stabbing at the lamb chop.“And we can forgive the silly trick you played on well-meaning Brandford”, said Alexa as she poked at some peas on her plate, “It did at least show strong appreciation of your audience, in my opinion”.“But surely Saki’s classic was over-reach?” asked Koenig sternly. The extended index finger of his right hand traced an arc and landed portentously on the cover of the purple book, “Beasts and Super Beasts” embossed in faded gold on the cloth cover. “Couldn’t you have come up with something a bit more original, or stolen your ideas from a less lofty source, at least?” He opened the purple tome at a marked page, “The Open Window, for heaven’s sake!”.Charlie was unhappily shunting a nasty knot of overcooked offal under the mashed potatoes, but otherwise appeared to be reveling in the public shaming of his great Aunt, “Do you think we should send her back to London, to stay with Aunt Muriel?” he suggested.Lottie gave the beastly child a chilling stare, “I was reading in the paper about a local boy that got mauled to death by wild dingoes down at a sheep farm, just west of the village of Pant. The details are quite gruesome”. Plagiarism at short notice was Charlotte’s specialty.
","August 18, 2023 16:46","[[{'Helen A Smith': 'Atmospheric and filled with comic moments. Poor Branford had no idea what he’d stepped into. Touches of H E Bates here.\nWell written and fun.', 'time': '08:35 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Luca King Greek': 'Thank you, Helen', 'time': '11:19 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Luca King Greek': 'Thank you, Helen', 'time': '11:19 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,vow40f,Sanderson's Cat Tale,Cheryl Kemp,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/vow40f/,/short-story/vow40f/,Fiction,0,"['Fantasy', 'Fiction', 'Adventure']",9 likes,"
     A loud slam against the front door startled the old man from his nap. He had drifted off in front of the crackling fireplace to the steady, lulling staccato of the rain on the tile roof. A second sharp bang roused him completely.
    His bushy silver brows pulled into a deep scowl as he shifted and slowly lowered his warm, stocking feet to the cold stone floor with a grimace. He heard frenzied scratching now and quickened his shambling pace.
    “Alright! Alright!”
    His long, gnarled fingers pulled back the antiquated brass bolt and he opened the thick oak door just a crack and peered out.
    “Whatta want?” he barked out into the storm.
    The frantic feline shot in between his feet and the old man pushed the door shut and turned on the sodden cat.
    “Honestly Sanderson! What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?”
    The large, beige cat stared back at him and flicked a chocolate-colored ear and leapt on the worn wooden chair. It opened its mouth and dropped the cottony wad on the edge of the table.
    “I thought you’d have more sense than to venture out in this weather,” the aged man scolded with a shake of his head.
    The cat merely stared nonplussed with luminous, moss-green eyes then batted at the bundle it had delivered. As if in afterthought it began to clean its muddied paw.
    “What have you got there? Steal someone’s wool bobbin?” he asked with a chuckle. 
    The cat’s saucy “brrrrt” made the bent man lift his wire-rimmed spectacles from the side table beside his easy chair and affix them to his deeply lined face. 
    The cat’s mewling trill made the man’s eyebrows go up.
    “Indeed?” He hobbled to the table and studied the small, white, spun package with a stroke of his snowy beard.
    The feline’s other brown ear flicked, making the row of gold earrings jingle with irritation and the cry was sharp and expressive.
    “I understand Sanderson, but you have no one to blame but yourself.”
    The Siamese chirped its displeasure and the old man ignored it as he pulled the long, jointed arm magnifying glass closer to the subject of study. A meow sounded three times in succession and he heard but never took his eyes from the tightly wrapped bundle beneath the enhanced field of vision.
    “I’ll tell you what I’m doing you impatient rascal! I’m formulating a plan. This is going to be a very delicate procedure. I don’t do this every day,” he huffed.
    The cat was pacing in front of the fireplace, sending out a low note with each step. It finally settled on the plush ottoman in front of the over-stuffed chair to finish grooming.
    “A spider, you say? Well, that explains the fine workmanship on this little parcel.” He prodded the fibrous swaddle with his crooked finger.
    The feline’s verdant eyes narrowed and it hissed, causing the old man’s mouth to pull into a tight line beneath his thick white mustache. 
    “I am simply making an observation. Spiders are very efficient creatures.”
    He moved near the window and returned with a leather bundle, untied the rawhide cord, and unfurled the roll. His lips pursed as he studied the array of small, thin tools now at his boney fingertips.
    Sanderson let out a loud, sharp cry.
    “Stop that! I understand time is of the essence, but I have to do this precisely. Your well-being depends on it.”
    He extracted a paper-thin, silver blade and twisted it in the candlelight. Then he lifted out a pair of delicate tweezers. As he pulled the stub of a second large candle to the compact clump beneath the glass, he nodded.
    “Alright Sanderson, here we go.”
    He adjusted his round, thick glasses to the end of his nose and slowly, painstakingly drew the razor-sharp scalpel across the tightly woven webbing. As the blade moved down the white cocoon, he separated the membrane with the tweezers. 
    “There she is,” he mumbled as he patiently worked.
    A tiny winged fairy lay unconscious on the bed of tattered spider webbing, her left wing nearly torn in two. The diminutive creature was exquisite, even in her poor condition. The tiny rose petal dress clung tightly to her long, delicate limbs and was sticky with web residue. Filaments of white webbing were tangled through her long red hair and her finely featured face was deathly pale.
    Sanderson jumped up on the table and peered into the glass. A low, sad cry emerged.
    “I don’t know if we’re too late. I’m not certain she will survive even if I can revive her. See that small red puncture on her leg? I have some spider anti-venom, but I’d just be guessing at what type of spider it was.”
    Long whiskers danced as Sanderson chittered.
    “An hourglass marking? Excellent observation, my young one. That certainly narrows it down.”
    He shuffled to the towering armoire and pulled open the doors to reveal a display of hundreds of bottles in all shapes, sizes, and colors.
    The cat’s rolling “mrrwow” reached his ears and he frowned again as his gray eyes moved along the shelves. 
    “Of course, I know where it is! Ah-hah!” 
    The ancient healer shuffled back to the table and extricated a long, very fine, glass rod.
    “Now you know I’m simply guessing at the dosage, Sanderson. I’ve never dealt with a fairy before, but we’ve nothing to lose at this point. I decided I’m going to repair her wing first. I don’t know if the shock of the break would hinder her waking.”
    “Mew.”
    “I’m glad you concur. I’m going to use this sticky webbing as a patch then just a speck of resin as a sealer.
    His skilled and surprisingly steady fingers manipulated the tiny instruments and when he was finished he could barely tell where the delicate wing had been injured. Next, he un-stoppered the miniature bottle of anti-venom and placed the threadlike pipette inside and extracted a single, miniscule amount of the tincture. Squinting over the magnifying glass as he maneuvered the tiny glass rod to the fairy’s lips, he let the nearly microscopic drop fall into her mouth.
    A large clock on the mantlepiece ticked out the long minutes and he finally sighed and lowered his head as he removed his spectacles.
    “I’m sorry Sanderson, we tried. I had hoped…” Did he hear the faint sound of bells?
    The cat cocked its head and let out a quiet mewl.
    The old mage pulled his glasses back on and peered over the magnifying glass.
    The fairy’s color was returning to her fair face and her good wing twitched. The old man nodded excitedly and sliced off a small square of silken material from the edge of his voluminous shirt. He covered the tiny, shaking creature and watched as her eyes fluttered open.
    “Don’t be afraid, little one,” the white-haired healer spoke gently. “You were almost a spider’s first course.”
    The little fairy gripped the swatch of silk closer to her neck and shuddered. Her iridescent blue eyes widened as she remembered. She shakily got to her feet and glanced back at her mended wing. 
    A faint chiming reached the old man’s ears and his lip lifted in the corner.
    “It’s the best I could do,” he said with a shrug. The gentle tinkling came again and he gestured to the cat, now looking over the edge of the table.
    “Sanderson brought you here through the storm.”
    “Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,”
    “Um, yes, you were carried in a cat’s mouth. Anyway, Sanderson had gone off to the Fae Folks to see if anyone could break this wretched spell. A nasty witch cast it. I’ve tried, but I’m at a loss.”
    “Tinkle, tinkle.”
    “You can? You will?” The mage asked hopefully. “Excellent news!”
    With a graceful wave of her tiny arms, a stream of golden, glittering light rose and swirled around the Siamese cat. The feline transformed into a beautiful young woman with long, flowing brown hair and pale green eyes. 
    “There’s the Sanderson I know and love,” the old mage boomed happily as he drew her close. “Welcome back apprentice.”
    “Thank you, Grandfather,” Sanderson said as she hugged his thin waist.
    She moved to the table and removed one of the tiny gold loops from her ear and offered it to the fairy. “For you my little friend, and thank you. Can you fly?”
    The petite Fae nodded, sprinkled some sparkling dust on the earring, making it shrink in size, and tucked it into the bag on her waist. Then, in a stream of tinkling bells, she fluttered up and toward the door just as Sanderson opened it with a farewell wave.
","August 14, 2023 19:43","[[{'David Bush': 'Awesome use of wording to build the atmosphere of the story.  I really liked the banter, dialog, and non verbal dialog between the cat and the old man.   And a very sweet ending! Nicely done.', 'time': '15:14 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Derrick M Domican': 'Love a good fairy story ! thanks for this!', 'time': '11:42 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Cheryl Kemp': 'Thanks so much!', 'time': '22:32 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Cheryl Kemp': 'Thanks so much!', 'time': '22:32 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Heather Van Rensburg': ""An interesting story and we'll written. I hope to see more from you."", 'time': '07:31 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Cheryl Kemp': 'Thank you!❤️', 'time': '22:33 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Cheryl Kemp': 'Thank you!❤️', 'time': '22:33 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,qrtz3v,A Survivable Sacrifice,Lily Autumn West,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/qrtz3v/,/short-story/qrtz3v/,Fiction,0,"['Fantasy', 'Friendship', 'Speculative']",9 likes,"
By the time his back starts to ache and his knees creak louder than his armour, a hero is expected to die in battle. It’s the polite thing to do. If he doesn’t, he risks his legend being forgotten, diminished by memories of a doddering geriatric warrior. A smart few ride off into the mists or risk a survivable sacrifice when they feel the effects of old ago. But heroes of legend always die before their time. Well, nearly always. Agatha Fillpot mused these things as she tapped her cane along the dirt path that meandered through the village of Avenglen. She paused as the dawn rolled leisurely down the evergreen mountainside and spilled the morning sun over the Avenglen valley. The average person might be awestruck by the scenery, but Agatha was a self-titled persistent old bint. For the third morning in a row, she looked to the foot of the mountain, before fixing her eyes on a small log cabin belonging to a Mr. Yondar Jagger. The structure had appeared on the outskirts of the village roughly around the same time Mr. Jagger had. He had been in Avenglen some 15 years and still kept mostly to himself. Naturally, that made him the subject of intense fascination.There weren’t fortunes to be made in Avenglen. A handful of young folk came to raise their families, but their children rarely stayed (although they often returned empty-handed to ask their elders for more coin). Avenglen had little outlet for youthful energy. It was an unnervingly peaceful valley, with an unusual demographic skewed towards senior citizens. Mr. Jagger’s trips to market were the height of village excitement. The man kept himself well. He had a full head of white hair, a muscular build, and a purposeful gait. Gaggles of elderly ladies fretted and twirled their hair like schoolgirls whenever the well-built gentleman wandered unwittingly into their midst, and without fail he found some excuse to be elsewhere.But Agatha Fillpot prided herself on being a different sort. Like any upstanding resident of Avenglen, she gave to the poor and supported homegrown adventurers. She was a devoted attendee of the local over 70’s weaving club, the Whispy Willow Brigade, an organisation that churned out an astonishing number of gift baskets for warriors. Agatha heartily participated, but privately thought the enterprise rather silly. The baskets themselves were the gifts - primly made and rimmed with floral accents. Try as she might, Agatha couldn’t picture a muscular fighter skipping along the cobbles, swinging a basket with daisy applique, piled high with the bloody spoils of war. Agatha’s fiery hair had faded to a snow-streaked ginger, her varicose veins stuck out far enough that one might reasonably confuse them with blue jewellery, and she hadn’t been able to get her wedding ring off since her husband died. But her eyes were keen and she tapped a deadly looking cane with her everywhere she went. Since the death of her husband, Agatha had fully engaged in her greatest hobby - knowing everyone else’s business. At least she kept it close to her chest. Recently, she had made it something of a personal mission to tail Mr. Jagger wherever he went. And so Agatha was lying in a shrubbery with a good view of the little log house, minding her business and digging wildroots, when Mr. Jagger stepped outside, looked both ways rather furtively, and satisfied that no one was watching, locked the door behind him and walked at a brisk pace towards the mountain, disappearing into the pathless treeline. Agatha didn’t see herself as a snoopy dog, but she had recently taken a keen interest in this particular patch of wildroots. Agatha waited, digging the occasional wildroot and peering sporadically into the trees through the mother-of-pearl opera glass that she used for sewing. She waited all day, until dusk rolled down the mountainside and blanketed the cabin in darkness. But Mr. Jagger did not return. Agatha silently cursed and drew herself up on her cane. She’d promised herself long ago not to worry her children, but she'd stayed out too late. She ambled along familiar dirt paths edges by low stone walls and hedges. When she arrived back at her cottage, the sun had disappeared completely behind the mountain.Her son Johan was waiting at the door. He tut-tutted, but the basket of wildroot quickly found its way into the stewpot.“Where were you, mother?” he chided. “We were about to send a search party.”“I found such a comfortable wildroot patch that sleep overtook me.” She stretched, her back creaking like an old cat’s.Johan nodded sternly. “Best be careful, they say there are monsters about.”“Aye son,” Agatha reached up and ruffled his hair, “you know what’s best.” Like her late husband, Johan never once left the village. She smiled sweetly and saw herself to bed. But her restless sleep was written with concern about the goings on of Mr. Jagger.The next morning, straight after breakfast, Agatha made for her wildroot patch. A thin trail of smoke from the chimney mingled with the morning mist. Mr. Jagger had made it home. The wildroot patch was getting rather sparse. Agatha frowned and surveyed the mountain, which erupted from the valley at a steep incline. It was a hike that few old men could make, and Mr. Jagger seemed to make it nearly every day. Feeling bold, Agatha skirted around the cover of the bushes to the side of the cabin for a better look. As luck would have it, the shutters were open. She peered at Mr. Jagger as he stuffed something into a sack.“Agatha, by goodness!” a shrill voice broke Agatha's concentration. She turned and the shutters thumped closed behind her.“What are you doing, lurking in the bushes?” A rotund, elderly woman’s face crinkled up in a smile.“Picking wildroot,” Agatha said quickly. Nessie Millyer glanced at the empty basket and pursed her lips.“I’m glad we crossed paths,” Agatha added hastily, “we must discuss refreshments for the festival Lunday week.”“Oh yes, the Willows are on feast duty this year,” Nessie’s eyes lit up. Agatha knew there was nothing the woman liked better than a good feast. On and on they talked about particulars. Out of corner of her eye, Agatha watched Mr. Jagger slip out of his front door and disappear into the trees.Days passed quickly as the rural village prepared for the seasonal festivities, and Agatha found herself too busy to keep an eye on Mr. Jagger. She did spy him twice at market, and thought he bought rather too much food to sustain one person.Lunday dawned, and every horn in Avenglen blared. The bards played music and the residents with enough life left to take to their feet shuffled about in something vaguely reminiscent of dancing. Mr. Jagger was conspicuously absent. Agatha excused herself and started on the path back to her family cottage, dipping out of sight to tread through the grass towards Mr. Jagger’s cabin.It was perfectly reasonable, she told herself, to be concerned with his wellbeing. It was the event of the season, and only one villager was absent. To enquire after his health was quite natural, even neighbourly. And so Agatha approached Mr. Jagger’s cabin, strode straight past the bushes where the ground now bore the imprint of her knees, and gave the door two quick raps of her cane. Nothing. She tried the handle. Locked.Agatha looked to the treeline and then to the sky. Steam still rose from the chimney; the fire had been very recently quenched. The sun hadn’t travelled noticeably from where it was when the man usually set out. She hiked up her skirts, and made for the mountain.Mr. Jagger’s boots had left a well stamped path through the tall grasses. At the foot of the mountain, the path became more difficult. Practically invisible. Practically, but not completely. Following only the faint outlines of bootprints, Agatha slowly pulled herself up the mountain from tree to tree, grasping on snarled roots, and leaning up against large trunks when her breath was gone. She had to stop often, but there were plenty of full grown trees to lean against, and she was finally rewarded by coming to a worn mountain path. It ran alongside a brook, narrow and steep, but was a path nonetheless. At least she could plant her cane and walk more easily. She was leaning on it more heavily than usual. Moss covered trees towered over her as she continued her ascent, following the babbling water upwards towards its source. At last she came upon a clearing. A plateau above which a waterfall trickled down. Someone had made camp here, and left a log for sitting by the remains of a campfire. Then she heard it. A deep, guttural growl echoing somewhere behind the waterfall.Agatha backed slowly towards a large tree, as an enormous, furry creature, came shuffling out through the waterfall on two legs. She slipped behind the tree and fell totally silent, slowing her breath as she felt the ground shudder under the weight of this creature. She reached for her cane as the beast snuffed its way around the clearing, trying to scent her.Agatha was fairly confident that she was downwind, but she stayed flat to the tree as she ran her fingers over her cane in a very specific pattern. She held it dangerously close to her chest as it began to form into a slender blade with a crimson pommel. She waited. The element of surprise was crucial. And it still might not be enough. She cursed her ageing bones as an old excitement pumped through her veins. She could hear the beast rounding the tree. She raised her blade- “HALT!” Agatha’s wrists were caught mid-flight by firm but wrinkled hands, and she spun instinctively to face her assailant. Mr. Jagger stood over her. He did not hurt her, but when he tried to make her drop her blade, it became clear that Agatha would let her own wrist be broken before she would give it up. Mr. Jagger peered with confused recognition.“HALT!” he commanded again, this time in the direction of the beast, who grumbled a moment, “oh for the gods’ sake Memur, just drop it.” the beast stomped back towards its den.The momentary distraction was all Agatha needed. With a crick and a flick of the wrist, she freed herself and backed away from Mr. Jagger, her blade pointed at his chest.“Who are you?” she asked. “And what is that?” she pointed at the long haired bipedal creature who seemed to have flopped down on the log, where it sat with arms crossed by the charred campfire remains.“The Blade of Surprisal.” Mr. Jagger said thoughtfully. “Only one person’s ever been said to wield it.”Well, he certainly talked like an ageing hero, Agatha thought.“You haven’t answered my question, dear.” she continued.Mr. Jagger raised his thick arms most of the way above his head. With arms like those, he didn’t need a sword, although she saw he carried an axe on his back. He chuckled as studied her.“I am Yondar Jagger… as much as you are Agatha Fillpot.” he replied. She lowered the blade a bit.“I was born a Fillpot.” she said testily.“And I wasn’t born yesterday. That sword of yours belonged to the Ruby Slipper. My party was sent to search for it after she-”“And how would you know all that?” She snapped at him, “About Slippers and swords and the like, unless you were-” she racked her memories, but the years before Avenglen had blurred. Mr. Jagger was no familiar face, except for the one she saw on market days in the village, but he had a familiar cadence, like so many faces of heroes she’d met before.“Barbarian.” she said at last.He grinned, and Agatha saw a gap where one of his teeth had been knocked out.“That’s a hurtful term Miss Slipper, I’ve not raged in fifteen years. Been working on my anger issues.”The beast growled and Agatha shifted her blade to point at it.“Memur won’t hurt you.” Mr. Jagger continued. She backed away slightly, but was moving towards a downward slope. This was not terrain for a retired woman to trifle with. Agatha dropped the blade to her side.“Who were you known as then, Mr. Jagger?”He sighed. “I’m just a legend who found a way out. And you?”Surely he was Rathgar the Strong. Magic or not, her blade would be a toothpick to Rathgar. Agatha smiled and rubber her hand over the pommel counterclockwise. The wooden handle elongated and enveloped the keen edge of the blade, transforming it back into a cane.“I’m just a persistent old bint who settled down, Rathgar.”He nodded and dropped his hand to shake hers.“Can I call you Ruby?”She shook her head.“You know how the Ruby Slipper got her name?” she asked. He scratched his head and appeared to be thinking hard.“She wore red shoes?” he replied. “Her enemies didn’t know they were dead until they saw blood seeping into their slippers. Please, call me Agatha.”Agatha looked at the creature, at least one and a half males tall.“And that is Memur, did you say?” Her curiosity overtook her, and she shined her sewing eyeglass a moment on her apron before pointing it at the creature. He raised a furry index finger as if to make a point, but when he tried to speak,“Meeeeeemmmmmurrrrrr,” he said sadly. The barbarian scratched his head again. “Best I can make out, he’s a wizard that got himself stuck like that. Bloody useful though.”“Was he your… survivable sacrifice?”To avoid the whole dying in battle bit, some ageing heroes will disappear into the mists. Other, more theatrical types will hire a few local bards and create a wild public spectacle; generally, a battle with a great beast on the edge of a cliff. By grappling the monster over the cliffside into the river below, the hero assures their place in local lore. The barbarian nodded cheerfully, “Did us both a favour really. Townsfolk wanted to stick him with points, I found him in a cave trying to do a wordcrosser puzzle. We had a great show of a wrestling match, then boff.” He brought his hand down on his fist, “straight over the cliff’s edge and into the river we went. Bit of a swim, a nice hike, and here we are.”A nice hike halfway across the empire, Agatha thought. Memur growled, and scratched at the sack that had been hidden from view behind the log. His furry fingers didn't seem particularly good at opening things. Rathgar strode over, pulled the sack open, and Memur growled his thanks and took off behind the waterfall with an armload of vegetables. “He’s vegetarian of all damn things.” Rathgar shook his head. “Ain’t no one that terrifies countryfolk got any reason to be a plant eater.” The barbarian gestured to sit, and Agatha settled in on the log.“Long time ago, emperor hired us to get that stick of yours back.” he gestured to her cane. “Wanted the Blade of Surpisal back after his favourite murderer was killed. Makes sense we couldn’t find the killer, seeing as ye did yourself in.”“Well, you know, when opportunity knocks…” Agatha said sheepishly, but she wasn’t forthcoming with details. Agatha had a lifetime of keeping most everything close to her chest.“Avenglen. So you settled here, eh? Musta been at least 40 years ago. Been wondering why there’s no crime about these parts. You taken care of it?” he jabbed her playfully in the ribs, producing a groan.“Mr. Jagger,” she said sharply, “Whatever you think I am, please remember that I am still an octogenarian.” she gave him her best withering look as she held her aching side.“I haven’t been taking care of anything here but my own family.”“Sure. But somebody has been. There hasn’t been so much as a stray wolfwandering through town since I been here.” Just then, Memur emerged from the cave and presented two wooden bowls with something roughly chopped and steamed that smelled earthy and fragrant and resembled a meal.“Next time put some meat in it old man!” the barbarian grumbled. But he dug in just the same.Agatha chewed thoughtfully. He wasn’t wrong. The attraction of this particular valley was the distinct peacefulness. But the Ruby Slipper knew that peace belonged to those who were protected by the biggest stick. “You think there are others?” she asked.Rathgar pondered the question. Slowly, he replied. “Well, we’re both here, aren’t we? Took you 15 years to find me. Gotta be others who were looking for a quiet place to settle down.”Agatha’s eyes lit up with excitement.“Mr. Molewhyte? Or Mr. Millencud?”“Maybe Millencud. Don’t like the look of him. No man his age oughta have a moustache that black. It’s unnatural.”They chewed in silence a few more minutes, and when they had finished eating, Agatha put her hand on his arm. “Mr. Jagger, we’d best be getting back to town.” Her eyes gleamed with mischief. “After all, I’ve been gone an awful while to fetch you. And you can’t miss the festival. It’s such a wonderful chance to get to know all of your neighbours, all in one place.”Agatha folded her arm into his, and led him back towards the mountain path. Mr. Jagger nodded slowly, a smile starting to spread across his face.“No couldn’t miss it.” He said, “wouldn’t be… neighbourly.”
","August 19, 2023 00:17",[]
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,7byrmj,The Good Thing About Living in Pleasantville is You’re Never Really Dead,Michael Jefferson,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/7byrmj/,/short-story/7byrmj/,Fiction,0,"['Fantasy', 'Fiction']",8 likes,"
	Ainsely Verloren politely shakes the hand of another stranger, who quietly utters, “Sorry for your loss.”
	“I didn’t know Missy had made so many friends,” Ainsely says to Cutter Klein, one of his few acquaintances.
	Judging by the turnout, most of the 428 residents in Pleasantville, Iowa, have come to pay their respects.
	“While you were designing houses, Missy was helping out at the bake sale, volunteering at the Boys and Girls Club, and serving on the Beautification Committee. She really seemed to like it here.”
	Ainsely holds back his tears, pretending to clean his glasses. “It’s a shame she only got to live in Pleasantville for three months. We finally had it all, a beautiful two-family house, with a bedroom for each of the daughters we were going to have. We had a nice nest egg, and seemingly… we had our health... All she had was some nausea and headaches. Missy was only thirty-four. We both believed she could fight her way through it. She was gone practically overnight.”
	“An aneurysm can be like that,” Cutter says.
	“Missy would have appreciated the turnout. You know what she would have said about funerals?”
	“That they’re grave affairs?” Cutter replies.
	Ainsely smirks. “Good one. She’d also say if she were cremated it would be her last hope for a smokin’ hot body.”
	Cutter pats Ainsely on the back, hugging him. “Remember her kind heart and her punny sense of humor, and you’ll get through this.”
	The mourners file out as the funeral home staff and the pallbearers prepare to move Missy’s casket into the hearse.
	A tall, distinguished-looking man wearing a cape with a mane of silver hair and kindly, soft brown eyes approaches Ainsely.
	His deep voice is melodic and soothing. “Missy was a treasure and a delight. She had a pun for every occasion.” 
	“We already covered the funeral puns, Doc,” Cutter says.
	“Right. She was a pretty woman with dark eyes like fathomless pools and had a contagious laugh. Missy made a lot of people happy.”
	“…Especially me… Thanks for coming,,,” 
	“This is Doc Carrion,” Cutter says. “He’s not only a great country doctor, he’s also Mayor of Pleasantville for life and the most important man in town.”
	Doc Carrion nudges Cutter, nearly knocking the younger, smaller man over. “I’m not that important and I’m semi-retired, so I’m not much of a doctor anymore. I’m so sorry for your loss, Mister Verloren. But Missy will always be with us because she was loved. The good thing about living in Pleasantville is you’re never really dead. You should come and see me some time.”
	“Seems like a very nice man,” Ainsley says, watching Doc Carrion walk away.
	“Can you believe he’s eighty-eight?”
	“He’s in better shape than you or me. What kind of doctor is he?”
	“He was a psychiatrist. He’s helped a lot of people get well.”
	“Hmm. Maybe he can help one more.”
 
 
	Ainsley sits in his car in the driveway, listening to the engine idle, wondering why, after a month, he still finds it so difficult to face an empty house.
	Groaning from grief and exhaustion, Ainsely pulls himself out of his SUV. Hearing a spirited, mumbling conversation between an approaching pair of men, Ainsely scans the street.
	Doc Carrion approaches, towering over a second man. Wearing a Newsboy Hat, the second man swings a pocket watch in rhythm to his short stride, his two-tone Oxford black and white wingtip shoes accentuated by the streetlights.
	As the men pass, all Ainsely can think of is how stylish yet out-of-date the second man’s clothes look.
 
 
	Standing at his mailbox the next morning, Ainsley marvels at the amount of junk mail Missy still gets. The new mail carrier has also mistakenly left several letters intended for his neighbor across the street.
	Ainsley looks up to see Millicent Mirren heading inside her house.
	Crossing the street, Skip bangs on Millicent’s door.
	“Mrs. Mirren? I have some letters for you. I could have left them in the mailbox, but I thought I’d do the neighborly thing and deliver them.”
	Caught off guard but impressed with Ainsley’s polite zeal, the slightly stooped, white-haired centenarian’s cloudy eyes brighten behind her glasses.
	“C’mon, in, Ainsley. How are you doing these days?”
	“It’s hard. But work helps fill the time.”
	“Don’t just go through the motions, Ainsley. Pleasantville may be small but there’s a lot you can do here. Missy told me you used to like to build model ships when you were a boy. You should do that again; it might help you relax. There’s a hobby shop in town. You can join the flag football team, help the neighborhood watch…”
	“Speaking of which, I saw somebody who raised my suspicions last night. I’m nearsighted, but I know I saw a man walking with Doc Carrion who looked like he’d stepped out of the 1930s.”
	“That was probably Butch Gunn. He runs a vintage clothes shop. He comes to town a few times every month to see his cousin.” 
	Ainsley offers a faint smile. “I should have known it would be something like that.”
	“You look stressed.”
	“I miss her silly puns, her twittering laugh, her love of old movies. I can’t get her out of my head, Mrs. Mirren.”
	Millicent pats Ainsley on his hand. “You should go and see Doc Carrion.” 
 
 
	“Nice suit,” Cookie Klein says to Ainsley, weighing out a pound of provolone on the deli’s scale. Turning to Cutter, his zaftig wife says, “Would it hurt you to dress up once in a while?”
	“Sure. I’ll cut up some bloody steaks, clean the toilets, and bring in the carriages in my white Giorgio Armani suit.”
	“You know what I mean.”
	“How about I bring along a few smoking jackets when we go to Italy?”
	“We’re going to Italy? You can still surprise me once in a while, old man! Okay, I’ll hold off on the divorce until we get back,” Cookie says, playfully mussing Cutter’s bright red hair.
	“That’s what I miss the most,” Ainsley says mournfully. “The kidding, the inside jokes.”
	Cookie and Cutter glance at Ainsley with concern. 
	Cookie wraps up the provolone. “You know, man cannot live on provolone alone.” 
	“You’re right. How about a pound of Genoa Salami to go with it?”
	Cutter huffs. “Why don’t you just invite him to dinner, Cookie? She’s concerned you’re working too hard and not eating right. She’d like to throw a feast for you this Saturday.”
	“Let me think about it,” Ainsley replies.
	Cookie throws her hands up. “What’s to think about? You’ll be out of cold cuts by then.”
	A cacophonous crash behind the store commands their attention. Cookie and Cutter rush toward the back door, followed by a curious Ainsley.
	Ainsley sees a man with shoulder-length, matted brown hair, high-water jeans, and an ill-fitting checkered shirt rummaging through the store’s bins of bottles and cans.
	Shaking his fist at the man, Cutter screams, “Kurt! How many times have I told you to ask first!”
	Kurt gives Cutter a child-like smile. “But I like shiny things!”
	Kurt begins putting cans in a shopping cart.
	“Is he homeless?” Ainsley asks. “I can buy him something if he’s hungry.”
	“Kurt’s got more money than you and me put together,” Cutter says. “He recycles cans, metal, rubber, and anything else people leave outside. You stand close enough to the curb and he’ll turn you in for a few cents.”
	Kurt picks up an empty can of Coca-Cola, dancing a jig.
	“So shiny!”
	“What’s with his fascination with shiny objects?”
	“They remind him of the sun reflecting off the water,” Cookie answers. “It was his last pleasant memory before he lost his wife and kid.”
 
 
	Another late night at the office finds Ainsley sitting in his car in his driveway at ten p.m., dreading going inside his house. Taking off his glasses, he blows on them until they steam up, then wipes them clean with his handkerchief.
	Looking at the loveseat on the porch, he remembers the day before Missy collapsed.
	“How do you make holy water?” Missy asks. 
	“Don’t keep me is suspense.”
	“You boil the hell out of it.”
	Ainsley groans.
	“My skeleton puns are more humerus.”
	Missy’s wide grin dissipates. Ainsley puts his arm around her, drawing her close.
	“Headache?”
	“No thanks, I already have one.”
	“Why did the window go to the doctor?” Ainsley asks.
	“I don’t know.”
	“It had a lot of pane. And you do too. Tomorrow we’re going to the doctor. But for now, you should go upstairs and lie down.”
	“I don’t trust stairs because they’re always up to something. So why don’t you come along?”
 
 
	Getting out of his SUV, Ainsley hears the sound of dress shoes click-clacking against the pavement. Looking across the street, he sees Doc Carrion walking with a thin, apprehensive-looking naval officer in a dress blue uniform. Like the previous man, his wool outfit looks like a prop borrowed from a black-and-white movie.
	Stopping in front of Millicent Mirren’s house, the two men turn to face one another. Doc Carrion adjusts the officer‘s tie, then straightens his hat. 
	The officer pensively walks up the steps to Millicent’s house, turning one last time to look at Doc Carrion. They trade salutes.
	Doc Carrion whistles “Some Enchanted Evening” as he walks away, his gait as spritely as that of a teenager. 
	Intrigued, Ainsley crosses the street as the officer enters Millicent’s house. The officer walks across the living room floor, greeted by a woman in a monogrammed blouse with puffed shoulders, her blonde hair stacked in a pompadour.
	The two throw themselves into a long embrace.
	Embarrassed that he’s eavesdropping, Ainsley turns away. By the time he crosses the street, Millicent’s living room light is out.
 
 
	Heading to work the following day, Ainsley spots Millicent tending to her roses.
	He is surprised by her vigor.
	“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re glowing Mrs. Mirren. You must have had a good time last night. How’d the party go?”
	“Party? I was in bed by 10:30.”
	“I thought you had some friends over. I didn’t mean to spy, but I saw a handsome guy in a navy uniform go into your house.”
	Millicent smiles sheepishly, blushing.
	“Was that your daughter’s husband?”
	“I don’t have a daughter.”
	“Well, there was a woman in your living room last night with the officer. I thought it was someone you knew because it looked like she had the run of the place.”
	“Oh, her. I went to bed so early, I forgot. My grandniece was over for a visit. Her husband met her here.”
	“Is she friends with Butch Gunn?” Ainsley asks. “They both dress in vintage clothes.”
	“She’s one of his best customers.”
	The officer opens the front door. Stepping halfway out he sees Ainsley, and quickly darts back inside.
	“There’s the guy! I’d like to meet him and your grandniece. You mind?”
	Before Millicent can say no, Ainsley runs up the steps, charging into the house.
	Ainsley finds himself standing in an empty living room.
	Huffing, Millicent catches up to him.
	“If you weren’t a grieving spouse, I’d call the police and have you arrested for breaking and entering!”
	“Something strange is going on. Why’s he hiding, Mrs. Mirren? Why’d Doc Carrion bring him here?”
	“Talk to Doc Carrion. In the meantime, you should go to work.”
	Ainsley sighs heavily. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mirren. I’ve always been too curious for my own good. You’ve been nothing but nice to me, especially after Missy’s death. I should know better than to invade your privacy.”
	Ainsley turns around to leave. As he does, he catches a glimpse of a group of photographs above the mantle. The largest photo is a shot of a naval officer holding a smiling woman with a ribbon in her blonde pompadour.
	Ainsley drifts toward the photo, picking it up.
	“These are the two people I saw last night.”
	“Nonsense. That’s an old picture from the 1940s. The people in that picture would be as old as me,” Millicent replies. 
	“Silly of me,” Ainsley says, noticing the monogram on Millicent’s sweater.
 
 
	Ainsley knocks on Doc Carrion’s front door.
	The doctor’s living room décor befits the surroundings of a busy country physician. A roll-top desk crammed with papers and letters sits in a corner. Bookcases with dog-eared medical books and Civil War histories line the walls, and leather armchairs and antique mahogany tables fill out the rest of the room.
	“I’ve been dying to say this. What’s up, Doc?”
	“Taking the day off?” Doc Carrion asks. 
	“Yes, to talk to you. I saw you walking with a Navy officer last night. He was wearing a uniform from the 1940s. The other night you were with a man who looked like he stepped out of an Edward G. Robinson gangster movie. I’m not as interested in the outfits as I am in the men. Mrs. Mirren has a picture of the officer on her mantel.”
	“That’s her husband, Oliver. The other man is Cookie Klein’s grandfather.”
	“Funny, Cookie’s never mentioned him. I heard you were good, Doc, but how do you get hundred-year-old men to look like they’re in their twenties?” Ainsley asks.
	“A better question is how they’re even alive. Cookie’s grandfather was murdered by gangsters in 1933. Oliver Mirren was killed eleven years later during the Battle of Leyte Gulf.”
	“So, they’re ghosts?”
	“More like the wishes of old and lonesome loved ones come to life.”
	“Are you a doctor or a sorcerer?”
	“More of the latter. The people of Pleasantville who have lost their loved ones and want to see them again come to me to make that happen.”
	“And you bring them back to life. How?”
	Doc Carrion gestures toward a full-length floor mirror in the corner of the room. Its hand-carved wood frame is festooned with symbols of the sun and moon.
	Ainsley studies his reflection. “Okay, so I look a little thinner. A fun house mirror can do that.”
	“Touch the glass.”
	Ainsley’s hand disappears inside the mirror. Gasping, he quickly pulls it back out.
	“It’s a time portal. I can bring anyone whose deceased into the present.”
	“Anyone?” Ainsley asks. 
	“I know what you’re going to ask,” Doc Carrion says earnestly, his brown eyes darkening. “I can’t bring back anyone who hasn’t been dead for less than ten years. House rules.”
	“And who runs the house?”
	“A committee of comprised of Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, and other religions. One of the rules is that this is a one-way mirror. People can only come out, and they can only stay for a week at a time. But they can’t go in.”
	“There has to be a way for the living to join the dead.”
	“Sure. Die.”
	“Has anyone ever entered the mirror and come back?”
	“Me,” a voice says.
	Ainsley turns to see Kurt standing in the doorway holding an empty can of Coca-Cola. 
	“Shiny,” he says. Whimpering, he crushes the can.
	“Go upstairs, Kurt,” Doc Carrion says. “Kurt’s wife was depressed after she gave birth to their son. He thought a vacation at Lake Kickapoo would be good for Jenny. He went to town for supplies. When Kurt came back, he saw Jenny out in a boat on the lake. He said the way the sun hit the water made it look like a painting. It was shiny… beautiful. Then Jenny tipped the boat over… I asked the Committee to let Kurt see his wife and daughter. Unfortunately, another rule is that people who commit suicide can’t come back. Two years ago, I came home in time to see Kurt enter the mirror. Since it wasn’t his time to die, the Committee sent him back. But returning from the land of the dead was too much for him. So, Kurt is our example, a warning of what can happen if you defy the Committee’s rules.”
	“Given his loss, their punishment was excessive.”
	“They feel they must be severe so that knowledge of their existence doesn’t go beyond Pleasantville. I begged them to be more lenient with Kurt. The Committee told me to stop making demands and do my job or I wouldn’t see my sons anymore. I’ve been doing this job for a long time, and the people of Pleasantville have come to rely on me to bring their loved ones safely back to them, even if only for a week at a time.” 
	“How long have you been doing this?”
	“Since 1863, when my boys died at the Battle of Chickamauga.”
	“Cutter thinks you’re eighty-eight.”
	“I’m sure he said that for your benefit. Everyone, and now that includes you, knows I’m ageless, and what my purpose for being here is.”
	“Well, I’m asking you to do your duty. I want my wife back,” Ainsley says. “You know what she’d say about this situation? … That your mirror was making me take a good look at myself. I have to see her again, Doc.”
	“There are thousands of souls on the other side. You might never find each other.”
	“There’s a bond between us that goes beyond puns and old movies. I know we can find each other.”
	“You try to pull her out of the mirror, she could still have the tumor and die again,” Doc Carrion cautions. “She could be disfigured, or worse, she might not know who you are. You go in, you’ll have to face the Committee’s judgment.”
	Ainsley approaches the mirror.
	“I know you’re watching over me, Missy, that you can hear me. I want us to be together again.” 
	Ainsley stares into the mirror.
	“Please, Missy… For our sake.”
	A hand juts out of the mirror, beckoning Ainsley.
	“No committee is stronger than love, Doc.”
	Ainsley takes Missy’s hand, disappearing inside the mirror.
 
 
 
 
","August 17, 2023 14:44","[[{'Mary Bendickson': ""I thought that pun about the smokin' hot body was made up by my sister.\nInteresting story."", 'time': '16:36 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Michael Jefferson': 'I worked with a woman who was heavily into puns. Referencing Shakespeare, I finally said to her ""Get thee to a punnery!"" Thanks for the compliment.', 'time': '19:13 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Michael Jefferson': 'I worked with a woman who was heavily into puns. Referencing Shakespeare, I finally said to her ""Get thee to a punnery!"" Thanks for the compliment.', 'time': '19:13 Aug 17, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,5kz4yb,Pick A Card,Hannah Lynn,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/5kz4yb/,/short-story/5kz4yb/,Fiction,0,['Fiction'],8 likes,"
“Pick a card,” her classmate said while passing her the jar. She smiled at the older woman then realized with a start that they were probably close in age. In fact, she was most likely the elder of the two.
 
She felt all eyes upon her as she held the smooth jar, giving it a quick shake. She had a sudden memory of her father’s voice. “Pick a card.” As if it were yesterday and not fifty years prior, she recalled sitting in the kitchen playing rummy while eating her mother’s sugar cookies. Before cell phones became the object of our attention families gathered around the table talking, eating, and playing cards. “Pick a card” he had said, a gentle reminder to her daughter, his granddaughter, that it was her turn.
 
Shaking away the ghosts, she picked out a folded index card and turned in her chair to pass the jar along. The young woman seated to her right was dressed casually with her hair pulled back into a high ponytail so effortlessly. Why was she spending her Saturday mornings here, she wondered. No credits were given for attending this class. Was she escaping a house full of children demanding her attention? Or was she enjoying her passion for writing, perhaps looking to turn her hobby into a career?
 
She held the folded card in her hands, turning it over and over. Like the anticipation before breaking open a Chinese fortune cookie, she was excited to read the secret message. Would it say have another cookie or give her great insight? She unfolded it. “The last thing you heard” was her writing prompt.
 
Rising from her seat in the circle, their teacher announced, “The clock starts now.” She made a grand gesture of setting down the old fashioned clock on the coffee table. Not too much pressure, everyone must be thinking, as the second hand started its journey round and round the face. Laptops opened amidst laughter and groans and the soft click clack of keyboards began.
 
She sat back, both amused and surprised at the simplicity of the prompt for her story. Grateful for her memory being clear she recalled that the last thing she heard was “pick a card”.  Her initial reaction was to write about the previous few minutes when the prompt jar traveled around the circle from student to student. Making up little backstories for her classmates held potential, she mused, and would be fun when read aloud the following week. She imagined the group trying to guess which students were the inspiration of the story.
 
On the other hand, she could create a whole new concept, tapping into a subject that held great fascination for her. With delight she pictured aliens in a spaceship playing cards, their huge eyes silently communicating to each other “pick a card”. Always observing yet unseen by most Earthlings, they discuss their next abduction over a game surprisingly similar to gin rummy. Maybe we aren’t so different after all would be the theme of this sci-fi short story.
 
That’s the beauty of storytelling. There are no boundaries, no limits to the imagination.  Exploring the endless possibilities was not only her hobby but her obsession.
 
Her thoughts drifted back to her parents’ kitchen, gazing out the window at the clothesline reaching across the alleyway and attaching itself to the building next door. She inhaled the warmth of the cookies as she ate them slowly, careful not to disturb her hand of playing cards arranged in order.  She took in every detail from her mother’s apron to her father’s brown flannel shirt and slippers. 
 
Delving deeper into the memory she heard chatter in their native language mixed with English. When her daughter tried to imitate their phrases, they laughed until tears came to their eyes, wiped away with a secret handkerchief tucked up in her mother’s sleeve. Unexpectedly she felt a misting in her own eyes at the love she remembered feeling in that kitchen all those years ago. Nestled between the two generations she savored the joy of spending time with both her daughter and her parents. Was she nearing their age now? It didn’t seem possible. The elderly seemed so much older in her parent’s generation when compared to her own.
 
A sharp interruption to her thoughts, “Halfway, class, halfway.” She blinked and felt a wetness on her cheek. Embarrassed, she wiped it away glancing at the clock marking the halfway point in the assignment. Father time marching on. She would have to get her story done.
 
The intrigue of a wild imaginative tale was put aside. The memory of her parents’ kitchen was the real story here, the story to be preserved, remembered, cherished. She typed it all out in the remaining ten minutes, titled it “Pick A Card” and hit submit.
 
As the creative writing class drew to a close, she saw her new aide appear in the doorway waiting to help her make the walk through the rec center out to the waiting car. She was pleased with her short story and looked forward to hearing it read aloud by their teacher the following week. The feedback from her classmates helped her continue producing her best work, kept her mind sharp. In addition, the socialization was much appreciated after too many hours of solitude.
 
She rose from the overstuffed chair and leaned on her cane, allowing her aide to carry her bags. The outing was wonderful as always, but the dreaded fatigue was creeping in. She suddenly craved being in the comforts of her own home surrounded by her books. 
 
Settled into the back seat she looked forward to the cup of tea and sugar cookies that would be served upon her return. Her driver stopped at the red light in front of Main Street Books. Glancing over, she smiled at the image of her younger self prominently displayed in the store window. Her aide gasped and sputtered out “Wow, Miss Helen, you look a lot like Hannah Lynn. She could be your younger sister or even your daughter!” 
 
“Oh? Is that so?” She smiled secretly to herself remembering the day she chose Hannah Lynn as her pen name.
 
“Have you heard of Hannah Lynn, Miss Helen? Not sure if you like science fiction? She writes about aliens watching us. I just love her stories.”
 
“She looks familiar,” Helen answered, feeling amused. Over the years people have noted the similarities but never once pegged her as actually being the wildly successful sci-fi author.  Being a loner by nature it was easy for her to keep a low profile and maintain her anonymity. 
 
The conversation faded to the background of Helen’s mind as she began working out a scene involving the abduction of a little old lady or quite possibly her new aide.
 
","August 17, 2023 15:22","[[{'Chris Belton': 'Some of your memories struck a chord with me. I very much enjoyed  the atmosphere you created. The twist, I did not see coming. It left me feeling like a trusted conspirator, sharing Helen’s secret, and this brought a smile to my face and warmth to my heart. I think if you leave it alone for a few months and return to it with fresh eyes you might want to edit a few things and make it even better. The concept is great, well done.', 'time': '13:37 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Hannah Lynn': 'Thank you for your feedback, I’m glad you enjoyed it!  Yes we are in on Helen’s secret :)\nI will take your advice and return to this story for editing and I am always open to specific ways to improve.', 'time': '17:47 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Hannah Lynn': 'Thank you for your feedback, I’m glad you enjoyed it!  Yes we are in on Helen’s secret :)\nI will take your advice and return to this story for editing and I am always open to specific ways to improve.', 'time': '17:47 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Wendy M': 'Nice twist to the tale. I enjoyed your story of memories and the importance of holding on to what matters. Well done', 'time': '20:57 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Hannah Lynn': 'Thank you so much, Wendy!  I really appreciate the feedback.  You are the first person to comment on the first story I submitted here.  I’m glad you enjoyed it!', 'time': '22:00 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Hannah Lynn': 'Thank you so much, Wendy!  I really appreciate the feedback.  You are the first person to comment on the first story I submitted here.  I’m glad you enjoyed it!', 'time': '22:00 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,1dhg4u,King of Coffee,Anthony Carello,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/1dhg4u/,/short-story/1dhg4u/,Fiction,0,"['Inspirational', 'Suspense', 'Mystery']",8 likes,"
	Benjamin Duval slowly opened his eyes, as the early morning light shone through the cracks in his blinds. He turned and looked out the window.
 Still early, probably not even past six am… Well, I might as well get up and start my day.
	Slowly Benjamin grabbed the sheets and took them off of him, careful not to disturb his still sleeping wife, Marie. His joints making quite the ruckus as they usually did in the morning. 
	Pop. Crack. 
	Benjamin checked on Marie to see if the noise had woken her. He let out a sharp breath in relief when he saw her chest continually rise and fall, rhythmically. 
	He never planned on waking up this early every morning, but he couldn’t help it. After several decades of waking up at the same time for work every day, his body had its own natural clock. Besides, in these wee hours he felt like he did his best work. As far as the government, his friends, and his family was concerned, Benjamin Duval was retired. For the past two decades it had been that way. However, he was the type of man who couldn’t let himself rest.
 Idle hands are the devil’s playthings. Anyway, I feel like I’ve been doing my best work these past years. When I’m in my workshop, I feel like a young man.
	Sometimes he felt guilty for keeping his secret from everyone. No one knew what Benjamin had been up to since he had retired. Not even his wife, who he cherished. It was funny to Benjamin how it had happened, little by little, he had turned his shed into a workshop. However, when you enter the shed, you would only see the standard lot of rusty old tools. Only by pulling on a wrench that was on the wall, which Benjamin converted into a lever, would a hidden door pop open. As Benjamin made his way through the house, getting through his morning routine quietly, he completed all the steps required and found himself inside his workshop. 
	When he retired, it was at the standard age of sixty-five. It was hard for him to believe, that it took him until he was retired to find out what his true passion was. He wanted to become the best barista ever – King of Coffee. 
“Alright, Let’s get to work.”
         This had been his morning routine for the past several years, waking up extremely early and coming to his secret workshop. He had dedicated his life to making the perfect cup of coffee, and just recently, he had done it. 
	Psssssshhhhhh. 
	The sound of the steam coming out of Benjamin’s homemade coffee machine was like music to his ears.
         Pouring the milk and the coffee into a cup, a smile couldn’t help but form on his face. While drinking his morning coffee, he thought about his plans for the rest of the day. Today is his eight-sixth birthday, and they were having a big celebration at their house. Tonight, would be the night in which Benjamin would reveal his great creation.
         After a few hours of tinkering around inside his workshop, he left and went inside to check on his wife.
“Honey?” Benjamin called out. 
“I’m getting breakfast ready. Everything okay in the shed?” Marie replied.
         They had been married for over sixty years, and his love for her had never wavered. Benjamin liked to think that she knew what he been up to in his workshop. After so many decades with the same person by your side a deep bond is formed, allowing you to know them like you know yourself. That was why, he guessed, she never pushed him on what he was always doing in the shed.
“Oh yeah, all the tools are looking good.” Benjamin said and looked away. Even though it wasn’t a direct lie, he wished he could tell her the full truth.
         Soon… Tonight, I’ll show them all what a true King of Coffee is.
         The rest of the morning and the afternoon were uneventful, at least, as far as Benjamin was concerned. It was mostly just cleaning of the house and getting everything ready for their guests, but he could handle it because the reward would be worth it.
 
         Ding-Dong. 
	Benjamin jumped at the sound of the doorbell, and anticipation coursed through him. He felt his palms start to get slightly sweaty, as he walked to the door. 
“Marie! The guests are here!”
         He waited for a moment, then he heard her coming to the door to greet the company with him. Once she was beside him, he opened the door and gave a warm greeting to his visitors.
“Hello!” They said in unison, a big smile on both their faces. Many people stood on their porch, this included; their four kids, their five grandkids, their life-long friends, and Benjamin’s brother and Marie’s two brothers and half-sister.
         Wow! I didn’t realize we invited so many people. This is great!
         Once they finished saying their hellos, they all gathered around in the kitchen. Marie insisted on having a big centre island in the kitchen, completely made of marble. Even though it was Marie who had wanted it, Benjamin had to admit he liked having family gathers around it.
         He watched as his kids, and grandkids all played and had a good time. A smile was beginning to form on his face, when his wife noticed it.
“You’re in a good mood, birthday boy.” Marie said and gave Benjamin a witty smirk. Benjamin valued family above all else and seeing them so happy made him feel at peace, which, of course, Marie knew. 
“I just realized that I have a lot to be thankful for.” He said and leaned in to kiss his wife. Then, his passion came to the forefront of his mind, and he straightened. 
“Honey, I need you to gather everyone around the island. There’s something I need to show everyone!” Benjamin hurried out the back door as he spoke to his wife.
         Timing is everything when it comes to coffee! I almost let myself get caught up in the moment. There will be time for that later!
         He rushed into the shed and quickly went through the steps to open his workshop. Everything was already prepared, and he grabbed the wooden box everything was in. 
         This is going to be fun!
 
         When Benjamin had come back into the house and showed everyone what he had been working on for the best part of his retirement, he was greeted with confused looks.
“Coffee?”
“Dad, are you feeling okay?”
“I like coffee in a paper cup.”
         They all said. Benjamin had been expecting this, of course. It was a strange thing to tell your family; that he had been working on the secrets behind the perfect coffee. Once they tasted it, however, they would understand. He chuckled to himself as he prepared enough the beverages for everyone to try. Sweat was starting to form on his forehead, as he wiped it away with a towel he kept on his waist. 
         He poured every ounce of energy he had into his work. While he worked the various machines and contraptions, that he had created to make the best coffee, he noticed his family was giving him worried looks. 
         HAH! I may be an old man, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t work!
         This was where Benjamin thrived, in the moments when he threw himself into task. He moved with a speed and precision that was far above what a man of his age should be capable of. As he got more and more involved in his work, he seemed to look younger. This was why Benjamin did it, making coffee made him feel alive. 
	Psssssshhhhhh. 
	He released the steam that was inside his device. Finally, he had finished the coffees.
         After pouring the drink into several different cups and adding the perfect amount of milk, Benjamin saw the looks of anticipation on everyone’s faces. While he was making the coffee, the aroma had filled the air. To them it just smelled like beautifully fragrant coffee, but to Benjamin he could smell all the fine details. Over the years of him being inside his small workshop, bent over different types of coffee beans, he had developed an acute sense of smell. His took a deep breath and his nose picked flowery, nutty, smoky, chocolatey, and herby scents.
         With the anticipation seeming to build in the room and the room feeling dense from the weight of everyone patiently waiting, Benjamin knew he shouldn’t delay any longer.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Go ahead.” He said, and almost as if it had been rehearsed, everyone took a sip at the same time. Benjamin watched with delight as their reactions made all the time that had he spent working on his craft well worth it. He watched as one by one, his family’s faces filled with first surprise, then joy. Before he could say anything, they all took another loud sip. SLUURRRRRRP! The dramatic nature of it made Benjamin almost burst out laughing.
         With a feverish intensity they finished their mugs and blinked, it was almost like they had been in a trance while they drank. He saw they look down at their empty cups, then over to one another. Finally, he couldn’t contain his laughter anymore. 
“AHAHA! Anyone want a second cup?”
         Slowly, they each raised their hands in turn.
“Wow…”
“That coffee was delicious…”
“Yeah dad, I’m sorry we underestimated you…”
         All Benjamin could do was smirk, for he had been validated. He wasted no time and brewed another batch of his perfect coffee. Now, as he poured the piping hot liquid into their cups and added the milk, he felt a sense of proud wash over him. Once the cups were full again, they waited for a moment out of respect, then began drinking once it seemed appropriate. He looked at the next generation of Duvals and smiled.
         One day, my kingdom will be theirs. For now, however, I am the only King of Coffee.
","August 17, 2023 15:38","[[{'Chris Belton': 'Benjamin is an intriguing character. I wonder if you have considered further stories of his exploits? I love quirky characters and was left wanting to get to know him better.\nI think if you return to it after a few weeks you might edit out a few things. Otherwise, I enjoyed reading it over my morning coffe.', 'time': '14:05 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anthony Carello': 'Glad you enjoyed! If the prompt is right in the future I may be able to revisit Benjamin. I did have a lot of fun writing his story! Keep an eye out for my future stories and maybe the King of Coffee will return.', 'time': '15:09 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anthony Carello': 'Glad you enjoyed! If the prompt is right in the future I may be able to revisit Benjamin. I did have a lot of fun writing his story! Keep an eye out for my future stories and maybe the King of Coffee will return.', 'time': '15:09 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Hannah Lynn': ""Fun story!  Perfect reminder that it's never too late to start something new in life.  I enjoyed your story!"", 'time': '13:11 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Anthony Carello': ""Thanks for the feedback! That's exactly the point I was trying to get across."", 'time': '14:15 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anthony Carello': ""Thanks for the feedback! That's exactly the point I was trying to get across."", 'time': '14:15 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,9uuj54,Lost time,Olga Foxe,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/9uuj54/,/short-story/9uuj54/,Fiction,0,"['Fiction', 'Speculative', 'Christian']",8 likes,"
‘Frank Courtney; new resident in bed 12. Male, 81, major stroke with right-sided weakness, speech affected, discharged from hospital this morning. ’
‘Family?’
‘Widowed. A daughter, as far as I know. I don’t think they’re close. He was a clever bloke by the sounds of it; scientist for the government, apparently.’
The two nurses popped their heads round the door, saw that the old man appeared to be asleep and moved on to complete their handover. The old man opened one eye. Glanced around. Settled back into the pillows. ‘Was. Hrmmph.’
The care home would take in those who were struggling to cope in their own homes, and it would also take patients who were ready to be discharged from hospital, but weren’t able to go back home. And that’s why Frank was here. Not that he had any choice, not that he had any say, not that he could have said anything anyway. Frank was stuck. Four weeks ago, Frank had had a stroke; he woke up one day in a hospital ward wondering how he’d got there. He remembered that he’d been heading to Wiltshire to meet someone, but he couldn’t remember who or why. And now he couldn’t even ask anyone because his face didn’t work. It’s not that he didn’t know what to say. All the words were there. It’s just that he had a loose connection. He’d pulled a few faces when some young girl came in to give him a shave. He could nod, shake his head, raise an eyebrow and blink, and give a shaky half smile - not that he’d much to smile about. Other than that, speech was just frustrating. He’d pretty much given up. It was so awful, he couldn’t ever imagine it getting back to anything like worthwhile. Just twisted grunts, like the most garbled railway announcement you’d ever heard. What would be the point anyway? There was no one to talk to. The nurses and carers flitted in, did stuff to him, and flitted out to do something else to someone else. No one had time to talk. Certainly no one had time to paste a patient look on their face while they waited for him to utter something they might be able to figure out the meaning of. Not that there was probably anyone on his wavelength here anyway. They probably thought ‘erudite’ was some sort of glue.
He lay back and waited for the next thing to happen. Drug round. Tea round. Supper round. Toilet round. Comes to something when your bodily functions have to happen on schedule or not at all…
 
* * *
 
‘Frank?’ The chubby dark-haired nurse called in that loud and low voice they use when they know something more shrill will interfere with people’s hearing aids. Frank irritably opened his eyes as you do when you’re not asleep, not deaf, and not stupid either. ‘Oh good, you’re awake,’ she grinned. ‘Would you like to see who’s come to visit you?’ Times like this were when Frank regretted his speech loss the most. Times which were crying out for a retort, sharp and stinging as a paper cut. But no, he was forced to arrange his face in a ‘I have no idea, do please tell’ kind of expression, because that was one of the few that he could still do. Before the nurse could offer any further inanity, the door opened wider, and something tumbled into the room. He couldn’t see what it was because his bedrails were in the way, but then his daughter came in muttering her thanks to the nurse and clumsily pushing in with a bundle of carrier bags bursting with who knows what. Junk, probably. 
‘Dad,’ she said. Making sure to give him a businesslike peck on the side of his face that still worked properly, and then lifting up Frank’s granddaughter and dumping her onto the end of the bed, as it was tiny girl who had made the clumsy entrance. 
Frank looked from granddaughter to daughter. ‘I’m sorry Dad, she wanted to come, and there was no one I could leave her with anyway. She’ll be fine, she’s got a couple of toys, and she just wanted to see what it was like here.’ Martha pulled out a couple of stuffed animals from one of the bags and planted them on the bed next to the little girl who immediately began talking to them as though they’d had a stressful journey. Chloe was an unexpected child. There was quite an age gap between her older twin brothers and her - but also, no one expects Down syndrome, do they? Frank hadn’t had much to do with Martha’s boys, and even less to do with the girl, living so far away etcetera, but it’s difficult knowing what to say in that kind of situation, isn’t it? Avoidance was always easier. And of course now, it wasn’t an option anyway. Frank shrugged at his daughter and glanced at all the bags she’d dragged in. 
‘I brought you a few things from home to brighten up your room.’
Frank nodded acknowledgment. 
‘Now you’re living so close by it’ll be much easier to pop in. But before I go back up north to check on your house, you’ll have to let me know what you want to keep and what can be cleared if…’ she paused, ‘well, I suppose we‘ll just have to work it out between us.’ She fumbled around in the bags, pulled out a few old framed photographs he’d kept of his wife and daughter on his desk. ‘Probably best if we hang these on the wall to save space,’ she said, casting around for the best bit of wall. They said it’s OK if we let them know where we want stuff, and they’ll hang them for us.’ 
Frank rolled the eye that rolled the best. 
‘I’m doing my best, Dad. I’m really trying., Martha’s voice shook a little. ‘I knew you’d hate it anywhere, so I just picked the home that was nearest and didn’t smell of wee.’
He snorted. Martha had always been refreshingly honest. 
‘Is that you laughing?’ 
Frank let out a wheezy gurgle. 
‘OK, that’s better. We can agree on that then.’
She paused as the door opened again, and a care assistant popped in offering tea, coffee, and the usual biscuits you get in a family pack. 
‘No jammie dodgers left, sorry,’ he said, ‘If they open a box overnight, the night staff always nick the best ones.’
‘Thanks for the tip,’ said Martha.
‘I wouldn’t mind, only we always get left with the rubbish coconut ones,’ he shrugged, handed a small beaker of orange squash to Martha for Chloe who was still absorbed with her toys, and pushed the trolley back out of the room. 
‘Well, you’ll be able to do plenty of people-watching at least,’ said Martha as she gently handed a plastic cup with a spout filled with lukewarm tea to her father. ‘Looks like it’s more milk than tea; Mum’d have a fit. I don’t think they have skimmed here.’ 
Conversation flagged as the adults sipped their tea, and Chloe offered her squash to her toys. When they didn’t appear thirsty, she gulped it down herself and went back to playing with her toys, making a little den for them with the bottom end of Frank’s duvet. 
‘There’s some post,’ said Martha, reaching for another of the bags. ‘Perhaps I could open it for you, and then you can read through, you know, sort it and let me know if there’s anything you want me to do with it. There’s this one as well; I thought it might be important,’ she placed a small envelope with a hand-inked address on it on top of the pile. ‘I don’t recognise the writing.’ She laid the letters to one side of his bedside table so he could go through them after his supper.
Frank nodded thanks. He smiled and touched her hand. The movement made Martha jump, but she squeezed the offered hand, and blinked away tears. She couldn’t remember a time when she’s felt closer to her hard-working, secretive father. The hand squeeze turned into a hug. So sad that after all her father worked for, all he achieved, this would be how it would end. She released him, and quickly sniffed and wiped her nose; Chloe noticed, her lip started to tremble and she took big gulps of air in preparation for what Martha recognised as likely to be loud bawling. 
‘We’re going to go, Dad. Chloe’s tired. I’ll come back tomorrow evening. Try to rest. ' Another kiss and she bustled away with her daughter. 
 
* * *
 
Over the next few days, Frank familiarised himself with the rhythms of the home, although his bowels refuse going to the loo on demand… The pile of post thins as he sat in his comfy chair, and first picking out the easy envelopes to bin without opening. Circulars, prospecting letters from people who sell conservatories, ‘free’ credit cards, charity newsletters. Then he put aside the bills for Martha to help with, magazine subscriptions to cancel, and condolence letters for her to help respond to. The small handwritten envelope remained until last. Then he eyed it as he sipped his lukewarm tea. Salisbury postmark. How funny, there was a slight smudge in the top corner, making it look like the postmark was dated 1951. Finally, he swept it into the bin at the side of his chair with his forearm. Done. 
One of the carers took him down to the ground floor library. He struggled to concentrate because of the stroke, and anyway, there wasn’t much he was interested in reading - the books were mostly murder mysteries which he found depressing; the main characters surrounded by so much death book after book - and the books themselves had probably been ‘donated’ by those who’d died too. Funny when you thought of it. A couple of the residents had died. No one mentioned it, but he noticed that he was now being washed and dressed about 20 minutes earlier in the mornings, and going to bed 15 minutes earlier too. There were a couple of empty chairs in the dining room, but he couldn’t quite remember the faces of those who were missing. The chairs would of course soon be filled with new people. Life goes on. Until it doesn’t. 
Martha brought Chloe again one afternoon. So awkward. Chloe went with him to watch him have his hair cut in the salon. She sat next to him swinging her short legs from the big chair and giggled at him in the mirror. He raised an eyebrow and it made her laugh harder. She pulled a face back, and he wiggled his ears. She roared with laughter. They headed back to his room. Chloe played with her stuffed animals as Martha told him family news and he nodded, shrugged or scowled in response. 
One day Martha brought more post, and Chloe brought crayons and a colouring book. Once Martha was clearing away the completed post and waste paper, Chloe plopped the colouring book onto his chair table and offered him the crayons. He reluctantly took a purple one. She, an orange one. Together they coloured, two heads bent over a picture of something - he wasn’t sure what it was; it was upside down for him. Quietly they worked, progress was slow, and neither was proficient at keeping within the lines, but Chloe didn’t mind. 
‘Look, mum!’ she shouted as she proudly held up a seaside scene of crabs, starfish and a sandcastle coloured purple (so that’s what it was…)
The colouring became a habit; on Mondays and Thursdays, Chloe would spend the afternoon colouring with him. He was bemused to notice that they were both starting to look forward to her visits, and he learned not to mind the scrappy outlines or the strange colours used. 
 
* * *
 
‘Frank?’ the day nurse popped her head around the door. ‘There’s a visitor for you. Dr Penrose? Would you like to see him in your room or in the day room?’ 
Dear, oh dear. Penrose. A long time, and he’d come after all. 
Frank had a minute before his visitor arrived. He glanced around, seeing his room in the eyes of an old friend and colleague. Now an ex-friend and ex-colleague. Tidy. Beige. Uninspiring. Just like Penrose, in fact. 
To Frank’s shock, Penrose didn’t look a day older than when Frank had been forced to clear his desk. Not a day. 
‘Caught you at last,’ a tweedy and slightly beaky chap said as he entered, holding out his hand. Glancing at Frank’s limp right hand, he swiftly swapped to his left without a word. They shook, Frank looking warily at him. ‘It’s been a long time, Frank. And not for want of trying either - I’ve written, called, I hoped you’d consider a proposal. As it is, I now realise, you’ve, ah, had a bit of a change in circumstances.’ 
Frank nodded. Penrose didn’t look a day over what? 36? How was that possible? 
‘So, I thought perhaps my proposal might be thoughtfully considered after all.’ Penrose pulled a chair up opposite Frank, sat and placed his briefcase next to his feet. 
Frank looked at him stonily. 
‘The project was successful. It works - and not least down to that, ah, unorthodox thing you tried…’
‘…that got me fired,’ finished Frank, in his brain. 
‘You were right after all. It is possible to go back as well as forwards. Jenkins did it. Went all the way back to Waterloo, had a look around, and back to 1951 in time for tea. Government’s keeping it under wraps though, can’t let just anyone muddle around in the future or history willy-nilly. There’s a bit more to be done though, and that’s where you come in.’ He shuffled his chair forward, resting his elbows on Frank’s chair-table. ‘We want to refine it a bit, more time accuracy, and hopefully, reduce the fatigue and after effects for participants.’ He spoke quickly.
Frank’s eyes widened with possibilities. 
‘Hmm, thought you’d be interested,’ Penrose’s beady eyes glinted. We can do it this Friday. Pop you down to Wiltshire, and it’s back to 1951, you continue your masterwork finish what you started, and escape all this - you get to be young again. How about it?’ Penrose looked at him keenly. 
Frank raised an eyebrow and took a deep breath. I mean, it would would solve everything, wouldn’t it? He’d get to prove he was right all along, work on the project that had been his passion; and he’d had so many ideas over the last decades, in idle moments imagining how he could make changes, making fresh calculations and forming new hypotheses on top of old, discarded ones. Streamlining the process, improving reliability, accuracy…’ 
He closed his eyes and leant back in his chair. This was unexpected - and irresistible; this chance of validation, vindication even, the opportunity to test things, the scientific process… To exchange this for all that. 
He opened his eyes and looked squarely at the confidently expectant Penrose. 
‘No.’
‘What?’ Penrose leant back in surprise. ‘But it’s your life’s work.’
Frank shook his head. No. It isn’t. 
","August 17, 2023 19:49","[[{'Derrick M Domican': 'This is a sweet story. How Frank started bonding with Chloe was very well done.\nAnd the decision to stay in the present go forward with a new life rather than go back to the old. Very nice!', 'time': '07:53 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Olga Foxe': ""Thankyou Derrick. It's always so difficult to get what's in your head out of it isn't it?! It's difficult to find the perfect balance between subtlety and lack of clarity, and giving sufficient information without beating people over the head with it!"", 'time': '10:12 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Olga Foxe': ""Thankyou Derrick. It's always so difficult to get what's in your head out of it isn't it?! It's difficult to find the perfect balance between subtlety and lack of clarity, and giving sufficient information without beating people over the head with it!"", 'time': '10:12 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Wendy M': ""I like the way your story ends, how life goes full circle and he realises his future lies with his granddaughter. If he changes the past he'll lose what he has found with her. Well done."", 'time': '21:12 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Olga Foxe': ""Thankyou soo much, Wendy. There are so many hidden lives that we just don't know anything about. In a care home you can get anyone - a ballet dancer living next to a nuclear scientist, opposite someone who fought WW2 in Burmah."", 'time': '11:33 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Olga Foxe': ""Thankyou soo much, Wendy. There are so many hidden lives that we just don't know anything about. In a care home you can get anyone - a ballet dancer living next to a nuclear scientist, opposite someone who fought WW2 in Burmah."", 'time': '11:33 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,2ccqvz,Retire...Who...Why?,Kimberly Walker,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/2ccqvz/,/short-story/2ccqvz/,Fiction,0,"['Black', 'American', 'Creative Nonfiction']",8 likes,"
Retire…Who…Why?
Never, until I die…that’s what Grandma Rainey Arrington said when I asked when she would retire. She said: “As long as I live and breathe, I will continue to teach. Teaching is my life, love, and lifeline.”
Lifeline?
“Yes, I don’t know what or where I would be without my educational background. When I was a girl, I couldn’t attend school. Your grandfather never learned to read. I was fortunate to have an employer who taught me enough to do the shopping for the kitchen and cleaning supplies, probably because she didn’t want me to confuse baking soda and baking powder like the previous cook. I continued to get more information and learn more about European cuisine, and before anyone knew what I was doing, I wrote my first:  Southern Country Cooking cookbook. After the first check arrived, I bought our family’s freedom. Freedom for sixteen people from Great, Great, Grandmother Wilson down to your father, anonymously. All of this was possible because of reading everything I got my hands on. It was before Dr. King had a dream before Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat, and Malcolm was still alive. Never stop learning, darling. That is your golden ticket to everything in life.”
But you’re eighty?
“Choose your next words carefully. I hope old, frail, or that dinosaur word octogenarian isn’t about to drop from your brain and waltz across those pearly whites you don’t want to lose.”
Aren’t you tired of getting up early daily and dealing with ungrateful teenagers, unreasonable coworkers, and a rude principal? That is what I was thinking…but I smiled and just asked where she wanted to go for lunch. I knew she had just turned 89, but she still looked forty years young and got around better than some of her children and, on some days me. Who was I to assume she needed to slow down? She has outlived all her siblings, two of four husbands, and half of her thirteen children.
Her youngest daughter overheard our conversation, laughed at me, and told me that she had been trying to get Grandma to retire for ten years, but we were preaching to the choir. Aunt Buck explained: “I think Mom is afraid that if she slows down, death will catch up to her. After Gramps and husbands two and three were forced to retire, they died within a month.”
At her 90th birthday party…
Grandma declared she wasn’t going back to PS-57 again!
They told her she couldn’t teach knitting anymore during the school day… 
Guys who wanted to learn to cook were interested in something other than knitting or crocheting. I believe the school district or board members panicked when two boys played with their knitting needles like swords, and one got poked in the eye. So, knitting needles were added to the banned weapons lists. That was when females could only take Home-Economics or Secretarial classes. 
I asked Grandma what she planned to do….
That is when I realized how vital empowering women was to Grams. She said: 
“I enjoy teaching! Those girls need a trade or call it a skill. I’m tired of seeing beautiful, articulate women only being able to get work as cooks, maids, nannies, or secretaries. YES, I teach all those skills and more. Maybe I teach what scares those in charge. I teach young people to be confident and how to speak their minds with assertive tones. I love seeing wallflowers bloom. They may have stopped me from teaching in a school setting, but no one can control what I do here at 1640 Riverside Court; I will teach anyone who wants to learn to Crochet or Knit anytime. I will only charge for the knitting needles, crochet hook, and four skeins of yarn. That’s enough yarn to hook the serious knitter or those who crochet or frustrate those struggling and wanting to give up.” My sister circle and I will welcome anyone who would love to embrace our love for yarn crafting. We will take them under our wings and share whatever they want help with, if only yarn, then just yarn. Some need refuge in times of turmoil but don’t have any place to turn or know how to seek help. I once needed help, and a good Samaritan helped me and only asked me to pay it forward once I could. My second husband was a hitter, and my grandmother used to say: ‘When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.”
You can know someone forever and never know everything. I knew Grandma as the crochet and knitting queen but didn’t know she had lived in slavery or had published a cookbook after she married her second husband. I never met Grandpa John or husbands two or three either. I knew she had taught Home Economics in the high school I attended; well, the school had been renamed, it was the same building and classroom, and I think it still had the same tables as desks from when she was a student; I swear I saw “Rainey was here” carved into the table I sat at from nine to eleven forty-five every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning for the first period during my Junior and Senior years. A dedication plaque on the back wall in the kitchen commemorated forty years of outstanding service in education.
Sitting next to her rocking chair, listening like the tape player, I drug around recording every lesson, hoping to become half as good as she was. When she passed on her 100th birthday peacefully, I was one of those frustrated ones that had given up on knitting. My cousin Lisa mastered knitting, and I do okay in crocheting but still can’t knit. 
I have a newfound respect for Grandma because I now understand the two bedrooms in the basement that always had temporary occupants who never came to meals. My uncle nicknamed Grandma Harriet T. 
 
This story should have preceded Back to Square One.
 
","August 17, 2023 20:42","[[{'Olga Foxe': 'Ah good job. God loves a knitter! xx', 'time': '15:51 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kimberly Walker': 'Thank You!', 'time': '19:16 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kimberly Walker': 'Thank You!', 'time': '19:16 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Emilie Ocean': 'Thank you for this story Kimberly :) I thoroughly enjoyed it. x', 'time': '16:01 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Kimberly Walker': 'Grams have been an important figure in many of my short stories thus far, revealing the most about our family and myself.  She has inspired my next book.', 'time': '07:47 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Kimberly Walker': 'Grams have been an important figure in many of my short stories thus far, revealing the most about our family and myself.  She has inspired my next book.', 'time': '07:47 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,hfq4px,A Thai Encounter ,Sofia Nesta,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/hfq4px/,/short-story/hfq4px/,Fiction,0,"['Coming of Age', 'Romance', 'Fiction']",8 likes,"
	Walking down the streets of New York was young Thomas of Manhattan: green top hat on his head, red flowers in hand. Walking with a purpose, he redirected himself to the local bus stop just a few blocks from his abode. 
	He was tired: drained of his words and hollow due to lack of sleep. His nights spent fantasizing about a distant world where he felt understood and where he himself could truly understand others. People themselves had always had a mysterious side that Thomas never seemed to fully understand, but he was hoping that today he could at least get to know one. 
	Once reaching the stop, he sat down on the far right side of the bench, careful to not make confrontation with the older man and woman sitting all the way to the left. He looked down at his flowers, and immediately began to doubt his abilities that he would be able to settle this heap. Noticing a small brown petal looming amongst the others was enough to drain all the hope from his body that she would now accept these.  
	He glanced across the street at the Thai place just in his line of vision. 
 “I’ll take the Miso soup please.”
	They had always loved that Thai place, especially her.
 “Let’s go to the Thai place on 19th tomorrow.”
	Sat at the corner booth, they’d spent countless hours talking about everything and nothing, the ups and downs, the ins and outs. 
 “I went to the supermarket just yesterday and noticed that they didn’t have sourdough.”
 “Weird.”
	They would stuff their faces with delicious Thai food until their bloated stomachs couldn’t take it any longer, and fill their ears with tunes from the speaker coming from the ceiling above.  
	Sat at that same corner booth that they would soon call their own, Thomas first laid eyes on her. In a room full of regulars, she seemed to stand out: long brown hair reaching just above her hips, a presence reaching the tops of the sky, and the most hazel green eyes he had ever seen. She seemed to have been arguing with the cashier, a damsel in distress if he really did see one. 
	Without thinking, Thomas got up and took charge of the situation.
	“I’m sorry, is there a problem here?”
	Ah yes, the classic knight in shining armor ready to save the princess. Is this truly what Thomas wanted to make of himself? A corny first impression to impress this random girl? 
	“No thanks, we’re good over here,” said the woman. 
	“Her card is getting declined, and she’s refusing to leave her food!” exclaimed the clerk. 
	Something came over Thomas that day, because without thinking once again, Thomas pulled out his own card and with one swift swipe, her meal was paid for. He glanced to his side and saw that the woman was now staring him down, a look of pure awe on her face. He then felt a sharp pain glide across his face, and a hand make contact with his left cheek. 
	“How dare you,” she said, and just like that, took off.
	The streets of New York were cold that winter night, leaving Thomas with no choice but to ditch his coat and hope that he could catch her in time. 
	The air was thin, and all Thomas could see were small fragments of white crystals falling onto the sidewalk, blinding his view from the task at hand. The specs of sleet penetrated each line of view, blinding poor Thomas of Manhattan as they took home on his eyelashes. The icy road caused for a difficult pursuit, as he slipped and slid in every direction whilst frantically searching for his damsel in distress. 
	After maybe kilometers, gosh, miles even, he spotted the back of her bright red winter coat: Thai bag in hand, and each strand of her hair perfectly in place down her hood. He called out to her, his words howling through the wind as they blew themselves towards her. 
	The dark New York sky acted as a blanket for the two of them, possessing them in its grasp, holding them while blocking out the commotion of the city around them. Enabling the beginning of a Thai encountered love story. 
	“What do you want?” she yelled from a few yards away. 
	“I just wanted to buy you dinner. Will you sit with me?” he pleaded.
	That night, one would have spotted a small Thomas of Manhattan with a beautiful woman talking through all hours of the night, feasting on a delicious Thai dinner. Sat at the small corner booth, discussing the courses of their lives along with their past, present, and future. 
	Thomas’s attention returned to the Thai place in the present, shut down and no longer in business. Just like them. He guesses that they were the ones who must have kept the business running, for having been there so often. He turned his head to admire the older couple sitting just across from him on the stop bench. The woman’s head rested on the man's shoulder, and their fingers intertwined with each other. 
	He’d fantasized about growing old with her: getting married, having kids, the whole shebang. She might have been there with him sitting on this very bench, having there been different circumstances to their lives. 
	As Thomas fantasized about how things could have been different, one of his roses broke off of its stem and wilted onto the ground. He watched as it rolled off of the sidewalk and onto the road, until a car finally drove by and over the flower. Thomas stared at the squashed flower, much symbolizing the current state of his heart at the moment. 
 “Get a crash cart!” 
	How his heart has rolled out of his chest onto the ground. 
 “1..2..3.. Clear!”
	Now coated in dirt and soot, never to be the same again. 
 “Time of death, 4:32 am.”
	He placed his heart back into the hole in his chest, feeling a terrible ache from all the grime.
	In the distance, he made visible the outline of a massive blue and white bus heading his way. The pit in his stomach told him to turn back, as something inside of him told him that he didn’t want to face her after all these silent weeks. No. He gathered up his flowers along with his courage and stood up to wait for the bus.
	He soon found himself standing in front of a massive vehicle as the doors opened directly in front of him. Cypress Hills Cemetery read the words above the door.  
	“Good luck, son,” Thomas turned to his left and noticed the older man on the bench watching him. He climbed onto the bus, and once sat, he couldn’t help but notice that the woman next to the man was gone. 
 
 60 years later
 
	Walking down the streets of New York was old Thomas of Manhattan: green top hat on his head, hand in hand. Walking with a purpose, he redirected himself to the local bus stop just a few blocks from his abode. 
	He was happy: he had lived a fulfilled life up until this point and was walking alongside the woman that he loved. Although people were no longer a mystery to him, he felt as though he was misunderstood in the eyes of others, starting from the point in which he lost her. 
	Once reaching the stop, they sat down on the far left side of the bench, careful to not make confrontation with the younger man sitting all the way to the right. Thomas looked down at the hand in his, and marveled at the fact that they were now reunited. Walking alongside her he felt complete, after so many years of feeling half-empty he finally felt full. 
	He glanced across the street at the now Chinese place where they once had their Thai encounter, and thought back to an event that took place just yesterday. It was the reopening of the restaurant after having been closed down for several decades, and Thomas knew he had to be there for her. He had imagined that they would have been there together, but the circumstances of their lives had prevented that. Slowly but surely, he dragged himself, along with his walker, up to the front door, and stepped inside. 
	That familiar ring of the bell was enough to bring back each memory that came along with this place: the homey smell of pad thai noodles, the ambient music coming from the speaker in the ceiling, and of course, the corner booth. He could still imagine the imprint of their bodies from having sat there so often, the feeling of the seat being molded to fit them perfectly. The smell of the noodles filling his nostrils reminded him of all the good times they had. 
	Except, it was different. 
	In place of the corner booth was a simple round table, occupied by a family of five. 
	In place of the speakers was a live band. 
	In place of the scent of pad thai was the scent of egg rolls (not a nice smell). 
	The sight stunned poor old Thomas, causing him to stumble, catching himself with his walker. Carefully, he walked up to the register. 
	“Table for one, please,” he asked, as the hostess grabbed her menus and led him to a singular table all the way on the other side of the corner booth.
	He felt so close yet so far away from her, as if her memory had been left where the corner booth lay. He knew that he could never feel close to her without it, yet there was no longer a way of getting to her. 
	He decided that ruminating on this wasn’t going to do him any good, so he decided to glance at the menu instead. The Thai place never required him to glance at the menu because he knew it like the back of his hand. He always started with the grilled pork, marinated pork Thai style, he then went on to the red curry with mixed veggies and beef, and finished off with a side of miso soup. 
	Nothing on this menu seemed to draw his attention, and simply the thought of all the changes made to this place was overwhelming enough to cause him to leave. He got up, and grabbed his walker. 
	They say that love isn’t something you find but rather something that finds you, and old Thomas of Manhattan believes that love found him that very day. He was found as soon as he began to feel a sharp pain in his chest, or when he collapsed to the ground. Clutching his chest, he reached for his walker as an audience started to emerge, crowding around poor Thomas as he struggled to find air. He was found when the air in his lungs became too little to sustain a man, and when the hand grasping his walker became slightly limp. His eyelids started to become heavy, and everything around him seemed slightly brighter.
	Coming back to the present, old Thomas held onto his love as he watched young Thomas make his way onto the bus. Cypress Hills Cemetery read the words just over the door into which he was entering. 
	“Good luck, son,” he exclaimed, and as the bus drove farther and farther, Thomas only held on tighter and tighter. 
 
","August 13, 2023 20:21","[[{'Shirley Heinz': 'Critique:  I was a little confused, but I do get that it is the young Thomas and the old Thomas--almost running into each other, right?  It seemed like the old Thomas was with his love and then he wasn\'t.  I also wondered about the sentences beginning with ""Sat..."", should this be ""Sitting?  Overall, a cute story...although you wonder why a guy would follow a woman who just slapped him in the face.', 'time': '23:30 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Sofia Nesta': ""Thank you so much for your critique. I do see how it could have been a little confusing since I never really specified how old Thomas and young Thomas were able to run into each other, but that is essentially what happened. I also appreciate you critiquing me on the writing itself, so I'll definitely go back and revisit those areas!"", 'time': '00:35 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Sofia Nesta': ""Thank you so much for your critique. I do see how it could have been a little confusing since I never really specified how old Thomas and young Thomas were able to run into each other, but that is essentially what happened. I also appreciate you critiquing me on the writing itself, so I'll definitely go back and revisit those areas!"", 'time': '00:35 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,9e2uhq,The Disappearing Beach Guy,Marc Rothstein,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/9e2uhq/,/short-story/9e2uhq/,Fiction,0,['Speculative'],8 likes,"
It's been decided that I'll be separated from Dianne, my wife of forty-five years. She'll still be just one floor below me in the independent living section of Horizons, our retirement community, but I'm moving to the Memory Lane section. They said I'm beginning to wander the halls at night, something I'm not sure I do. But Dianne told me they're right, so I'll give it a try.
Andrea, my favorite nurse's aide, walked me to my new room. On the outside of my door hung this cool diorama introducing me to my new neighbors. Dianne's impressive handiwork featured two family photos, sheet music for My Favorite Things, two seashells, and a vial of pink sand. The caption read, ""Leon Roth, A Beach Guy.""
The walls and my dresser were covered in family pictures—Dianne's second love was photography. While I surveyed the photos, Andrea smiled. ""Your wife and kids worked all morning to make this place your own."" It hit me that I've had more than my quota of great memories, no matter what lies ahead. My window overlooked the community vegetable garden, a reassuring reminder of the cycle of life.
The garden is now bathed in golden twilight. How long have I been standing at the window? Years after losing my mother to Alzheimer's, one of my greatest fears may have finally caught up to me. My thoughts and distant memories are still clear, with few exceptions. My problems are mostly short-term and missing words. Nothing I can't cope with for now. I lay on my empty bed, anxious for the night to pass so I could have breakfast with Dianne.
I closed my eyes and heard it. There's nothing like the sound of waves breaking on the beach, an endless serenade to the soul. An inspiring balance of power and beauty. The water has a plan and a destiny: try to escape only to be driven home by gravity.
I dreamt of serene darkness, void of everything but the primordial beat of the sea. I was on my Ocean City condo's balcony four stories up, just like the photo in my room. I'm reminded that, like the sea, we all finally get driven back home.
The black gave way to a sky-painted reflection on the water as the seagulls welcomed the day. The first few beach jocks jogged by as the sand-cleaning tractors did their thing. A hundred yards out, a school of dolphins broke the water—not an unusual sight, but one that always roused my inner child.
Wait. that actually happened. It was the weekend of my sixtieth birthday. Dianne came out and joined me with two cups of coffee, leaving the sliding door open so Coltrane could perfuse us with ""My Favorite Things."" I held her hand and closed my eyes. My love, soulful jazz, and the ocean. All was good.
****
Breakfast in the main dining room was far from quiet. Our table was full of old yentas gossiping and complaining about everything: the food, the temperature, the replacement food, and the snarky attitudes of those servers. Dianne and I held hands under the table and ignored them. We were rarely apart after working together in our tailor shop for twenty-five years. Then we lived together in Horizons for two years. Last night was the first time we'd slept apart in decades, and I missed her badly. Today they were taking her out on a group shopping trip at lunchtime, but I'll see her again for dinner.
Back in my room, I rocked in my chair, looking at a browned photo of my mother standing by a baby carriage on the Atlantic City boardwalk. My first seashore trip flashed back. An endless procession of waves crashed in the distance. The bright sun faded, but a gentle breeze blew over my stroller, its soft whoosh stirring my blanket, reassuring me that all was well. Behind the wind's lullaby, I heard the faint laughter of kids splashing in the water. My mother hummed a lullaby and I felt safe, despite the roar of the sea.
My mother and I spent a month at the shore with my aunt and cousin, Issac. Dad and my Uncle Al drove two hours from Philadelphia to join us on the weekends. They'd push my carriage down the click-clacking boardwalk, past a stand where the big bands would perform—my first taste of live music.
Another photo of two skinny kids, sopping wet with their arms around each other, reminded me that the shore had become a yearly routine. By the time Issac and I were six, we were allowed to venture into the ocean up to our waists. Just a few yards further out, the relatively monstrous waves crested, crashed, and churned up white foam. My brother David was only two. He sat by my mother and watched us from the shore. In time he'd be my best beach buddy. 
****
It's been a few months since I moved upstairs, but it feels like years. They try to get me out of my room, but the community area down the hall is full of guests in much worse shape than me. They're arranged in a vast empty space where they can be easily monitored by two or three aides, a circle of wheelchair zombies that only depresses me more. Some are childlike, holding donated dolls. Others appear to be napping. Many have a strange vacant stare. I live for my daily visit from Dianne and hope I won't upset her.
My son gave me a gadget that holds thousands of songs and crammed my whole jazz collection into it. I spend hours rocking in my chair, lost in the music. Now, my room is not so lonely. Today, it must have been an accident, my kids' favorite Nirvana song, Smells Like Teen Spirit, came on. I hated that noise when they used to play it, but this time, its hook snagged me.
I stood at the dresser and picked up a picture of my little kids, Albert, Stefanie, and Jamie, walking with me down the beach in Longport, New Jersey. In the background, my brother and his kids played in the waves. I sank back into my rocker, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. My old friend, the sea, welcomed my family.
Longport was our summer happy place. I played a game with each kid, recreating the excitement of my first wave encounter. I'd hold them around the waist and crouch down, bringing our heads level with the water as a swell approached. Then, I'd spring upward at the last moment and hold them above the spray. They loved it (I think). Each became a wave rider as they got older and grew comfortable with the timing.
My heart warmed as I remembered more. After a day of playing in the surf, we'd cover the boardwalk end-to-end, following the fragrance of our choice: pizza, caramel popcorn, cotton candy, or fudge. We were in a club of parents trying to herd their sunburnt kids through the crowd. After dark, you couldn't see them, but the rhythm of the waves made their presence known. Standing by the railings overlooking the beach, an assortment of dead sea things stranded under the boardwalk added a malodorous element to the salty night air.
The kids would crash in the backseat on our drive home, unaware of the soft blues playing in the background. On the long drive home, I'd admire them in my rearview mirror, then glance at Dianne, who was dozing next to me. I was truly blessed.
****
This morning they came to my room with a birthday cake. They said I was eighty, or was it eighty-eight? Who cares? I know it's getting worse, but I'm not sure what I look like to others. The smooth memories are broken with jagged arguments. I've even made Dianne cry. Before I can feel upset, the bad things are gone. To avoid them, I stick to the same simple script no matter who I'm talking to, the nurse, a hallmate, or Dianne. ""I'm feeling—you know the ups and downs."" ""Getting older. Parts wear out."" ""What's the weather supposed to do today?""
I'm spending even more time in my room. I don't even bother turning off the music at bedtime. They lower the volume for me sometimes. Once, Nat King Cole's Unforgettable came on. I turned to face a picture of my father, and the memory snapped into place. That song played as Dad and I cruised down old Route One past Key Largo. He sang along to the radio, his baritone voice filling his Ford convertible while the water gently lapped at both sides of the road. A brief reprieve from my confusion.
****
Today I missed lunch. They brought it to me with a surprise—a skinny version of Santa delivered it. Christmas already? I looked out my window for signs of it. It had snowed.
Christmas reminded me of my brother, David. A wave of sadness came over me. The holidays have never been the same since he passed. We were best friends for all our lives before his heart attack. He was way too young, just like my father and grandfather were. I guess I was lucky.
As kids, we loved the holiday season. Growing up a block away from the ocean in Miami Beach was a blast. We'd stay at the beach for hours on our Christmas break from school. His infatuation with cars started there. He let me bury him up to his chest in the sand, and I'd sculpt a car around him, so he could pretend he was in a race. Later in life, he became a crack auto mechanic and drove some actual race cars.
****
Time has no meaning, and large pieces of me have disappeared. Yet, no matter how deep into the maze I go, the seashore still calls now and again. The names and faces have burrowed under the sand like a lost ring, but the feelings and haunting melodies remain.
I woke from a nap to pressure waves from heating vents in the big room down the hall. Through eyelid slits, I saw the rest of a large circle of blanket-wrapped zombies, sitting sedately in wheelchairs, some nodding, some asleep. All are mentally elsewhere. My thoughts came and went, intermingled with sleep and those sweet, tangled strands of memories and shards of angry words.
Sometimes people came to visit, looking so familiar but just out of my mind's reach. The tip of my tongue led back to a crowded waiting room of words and faces hoping to be reunited with their meaning. Each visitor held my hand and dabbed their eyes when they thought I wasn't looking. Some wheeled me outside for fresh air and whispered stories I couldn't follow, but I was glad for the company. The ocean smells were replaced with pine trees and roses. Still, I felt all was well whenever the wind blew past my blanket.
****
Tonight, the nurse helped me into bed and turned off the light. Somehow, she didn't see the kid in the wet bathing suit rocking in my chair. There was no mistaking his face. David wore a big mischievous smile. He came to my side, gazed upward, and extended his hand. In place of the ceiling was the beach in Atlantic City. My parents walked towards the sea. 
In the silence, I felt him say. ""They're waiting. I'll drive.""
","August 15, 2023 14:36","[[{'Wendy M': 'Wow, what a fabulous story. You stayed in your narrators head throughout and created such a touching picture of ageing and how time takes its toll. But still he remained, a small part of his former self, sadly unable to say he was still in there. Lovely themes of the beach and music woven through. Really moving and well written.', 'time': '21:29 Aug 20, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Marc Rothstein': ""Hi Wendy,\nSorry for the late reply. I've been travelling and am new to Reedsy.\nI appreciate your encouragement and comments.\nBest,\nMarc"", 'time': '14:05 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Marc Rothstein': ""Hi Wendy,\nSorry for the late reply. I've been travelling and am new to Reedsy.\nI appreciate your encouragement and comments.\nBest,\nMarc"", 'time': '14:05 Sep 02, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,gcdxcs,Finding Orlando,Melissa Maize,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/gcdxcs/,/short-story/gcdxcs/,Fiction,0,"['Funny', 'Inspirational', 'Happy']",7 likes,"
At some point in Patti’s life, her eyebrows disappeared.
 
She used to have them, there was photographic evidence. They were perfectly ordinary, nothing like the thick, robust tufts of hair that rested above Richard’s eyes. Her husband seemed to be acquiring more body hair as he aged. It now appeared in his nostrils and ears, although none of this seemed to faze him. Patti felt slightly embarrassed each morning, penciling in her eyebrows like lines in a children’s drawing. She knew she should be thankful, that things could be much worse, but it still felt like she had lost a part of her younger self. Also, she once accidentally drew the arch too high and had to spend the day looking permanently surprised.
 
Patti didn’t feel old. Her mind, her desires, her interests, none of it aligned with the eighty-two-year-old face staring back at her. She had tried to bring this up with Richard over a Costco salmon dinner, and he had dismissed her fears, filed them as overdramatic. Lately, their conversations felt like they were both speaking in a second language. Details were lost in translation, until everything that mattered remained unsaid.
 
She was also convinced Richard no longer looked at her. His eyes seemed unfocused, wandering around the spaces beside or slightly above her head, never quite landing on her. She optimistically hoped he simply needed stronger glasses.
 
“How about a picnic today? It’s gorgeous outside,” she proposed to him.
 
He was shoving an alarming amount of green leaves in the blender their daughter, Mary, had given him for Christmas. He seemed convinced that the secret to longevity had a lot to do with kale.
 
“Can’t, sorry,” he said, looking somewhere near her hairline. “We’re getting that new shipment in today, so I’ll probably be back late.”
 
The shipment he was referring to was for his Model Train Club. Initially, Patti had been glad he joined, she thought it was good he had a hobby to keep him busy. Now, she increasingly found herself feeling jealous of miniature steam engines.
 
“Oh, OK. No problem. Have fun!”
 
“Thanks,” he said, nodding in the direction of her left ear.
 
Soon, she was alone, cleaning the blender and wondering what to do with her day. Patti had tried a series of clubs herself, but she was terrible at card games, and her craft projects looked like something created by her grandchildren. She decided to call Mary.
 
“Hello, darling!” she trilled through the phone.
 
“Hi, Mom,” Mary replied.
 
“How are you? How are Graham and Celine?” Patti had her opinions on her daughter’s decision to name her children after a cracker and a Canadian pop singer, but she kept them to herself.
 
“They’re good, we’re good. Things are a bit crazy right now, between the soccer games and Celine’s sudden interest in joining Junior Masterchef.”
 
“Celine is cooking? How wonderful! Does she want to try my lemon meringue pie recipe?”
 
There was a pause while Mary blasted her horn. “Do they only give licenses to idiots these days? Look, I’ve got to go, Mom. I’ll call you later, OK? Bye!”
 
“Oh, OK- Bye, I love-“ Patti was cut off as Mary hung up the phone.
 
She stared at the phone in her hand and thought about the hours that stretched before her. There were errands she should run, but there was only one thing she truly wanted to do.
 
Taking unnecessary caution, she quietly went upstairs and opened her sock drawer. Buried deep, she had hidden a copy of “Orlando’s Secret Desire” by Charlotte Elderwilde. It was a thrilling, romantic tale of Orlando, a knight who gets captured by an evil sorceress, only to fall in love with her daughter, Rosalind.
 
A couple months ago, she had walked in on Richard reading one of her Elderwilde books. She thought he might be shocked, scandalized by some of the raunchier scenes, but his reaction had been much worse. He laughed. He said the book was ridiculous, and Patti knew what he meant was, so are you. She had kept her books hidden ever since.
 
Hours later, she turned the last page and shut her book, sated with a happy ending. After her heartbeat resumed its normal rhythm, she went to the library website to order her next escape. Scrolling through the results for “Charlotte Elderwilde,” she realized she had already read them all. After some thorough Googling, she learned that “Orlando’s Secret Desire” was the last book Elderwilde had ever written.
 
Bereft and in denial, she continued to scroll and stumbled upon an online forum dedicated to Elderwilde, called “Wilde Women.”
 
There they were. Hundreds, maybe thousands of women like her, all united by their love of the author’s books. Patti read dozens of entries, delighted and comforted by these strangers who had found the same solace in Elderwilde’s words that she had.
 
Diving in deeper, she found a page labeled “Inspired by Charlotte.” It contained stories that fans had written, using Charlotte’s style or one of her characters. Patti felt like she had discovered a secret sequel to her favorite film. Although, her favorite film was Titanic, so a sequel might be a little tricky.
 
That night, Patti and Richard had eaten dinner while watching the evening news, then he had gone straight to bed. He said he was exhausted, although Patti wasn’t exactly sure what was so exhausting about model trains. They weren’t exactly heavy.
 
Once he was asleep, she snuck downstairs to the computer. She would just try it out, write a couple lines.
 
Orlando’s hand reached between the bars, stroking Rosalind’s…
 
What do sorceress’s daughters wear? Gowns? Cloaks? Leggings?
 
…cheek. He leaned slowly towards her, his mouth inching towards hers-
 
“What are you doing?”
 
She jumped out of her chair as Richard flicked on the living room light.
 
“Richard! You scared me!” Patti cried.
 
“Sorry. Why were you down here in the dark?”
 
“I, um…” she quickly closed her tab and offered a prayer of thanks that he wasn’t wearing his glasses. “I was looking at cooking classes. For Celine.”
 
“Oh. OK.” The mention of grandchildren seemed to pacify Richard. That was all Patti was supposed to think about, her grandchildren and what to cook him for dinner. He padded back upstairs, and Patti waited until she heard the bedroom door shut. She re-opened her tab.
 
“Orlando!” she cried. “I think I heard something. What if we get caught?”
 
“I don’t care,” he said, kissing her passionately.
 
Patti woke up late the next morning, Richard had already left. As she stretched across her orthopedic mattress, last night’s online adventure came to her like a dream. Patti raced to the computer.
 
A like! Her story had a like! And a comment, from someone calling themselves peasantwench54.
 
Gr8 story, love Orlando!
 
In spite of this woman’s questionable exchange of vowels for numbers, Patti felt a rush of gratitude towards her. The women on this site were frank with their desires, they encased them in words and shared them without shame. With a thrill, Patti realized she was now one of them.
 
The remainder of the day passed by in a blur as she expanded on Orlando’s exploits. The words seemed to pour out of her effortlessly. As the light seeped out of the living room, she felt the satisfied peace that followed a productive day. Her fingers ached from her slow, deliberate typing, and she craved a glass of wine. No- a Martini!
 
By the time Richard got home she was on her second cocktail and felt like Katherine Hepburn.
 
“I’ve missed you,” she said huskily.
 
“What?”
 
“I’ve missed you!”
 
He looked flustered at this remark and fiddled with his house keys. “Why are you in your pajamas? Did you wear them all day?”
 
“I…might have.”
 
“Is that a Martini?”
 
“Yes! Would you like one?” she asked. Patti tried to remain upbeat as she watched her hopeful plans for the evening evaporate.
 
“It’s a Tuesday.”
 
She had never heard someone pronounce a weekday with such judgement.
 
“We’re retired, Richard. Isn’t this sort of the point? This…freedom?”
 
“Well, I actually have to be up quite early tomorrow.”
 
He left the room, closing the discussion has he closed the door. Patti downed the rest of her Martini. Did Richard even care about her anymore? He seemed to be running his life parallel to Patti’s, taking great pains to minimize any overlap. Would he miss her, truly miss her, if she were gone?
 
She stared at the photo of them that was displayed proudly on the bookshelf. Richard’s arm was wrapped tightly around her. Back then, he was incapable of going more than five minutes without touching her. Holding her hand, brushing her arm, kissing her cheek. It was as if he wanted to remind himself that she was real, she was his.
 
She searched their life now for some trace of that couple in the photo, and found none.
 
The next morning, Patti continued to feign sleep until she knew Richard was safely out of the house. Then she ran to the computer, eager to see if there was any response to Orlando’s latest tale.
 
Eighteen likes! And a follower! Someone was actually following Patti’s work. She thought about this person. They thought she was more than just a silly, harmless grandma past her prime. Were they on the site now, wondering when Patti’s next piece might be posted?
 
Each day, Patti escaped each day to a world of fantasy. The one character she kept returning to, that her followers- sixty now! - kept asking for, was Orlando. Her Orlando was different from Elderwilde’s, though. He was still brave and dashingly handsome, but he was also softer, kinder. Patti’s Orlando could cook, he would bring Rosalind wildflowers, he made amends with his evil sorceress mother-in-law.
 
Patti was typing furiously one day, when the phone rang.
 
“Hello?”
 
“Mom! It’s me,” Mary said breathlessly. From the meaningless jingles playing in the background, Patti could tell she was at the supermarket.
 
“Hi honey! How are you? Did Celine get those cookbooks I sent?”
 
“Yes, thank you. Sorry I forgot to tell you, but she’s not cooking anymore, I’m afraid.”
 
“Oh! Oh, well. What’s she into now?” Patti asked.
 
“Fencing.”
 
“Fencing! Now, does she use a foil or a sabre?”
 
“Foil,” Mary replied, her voice rising with suspicion. “How do you know so much about swords?”
 
“Oh, you know. Oprah,” Patti said airily.
 
“Right. Well, anyway, I just wanted to check in. Dad said you’ve been acting a little, um, strange recently?”
 
“Did he?” Patti fought to keep the rage out of her voice.
 
“Yes, not leaving the house much, drinking more, not cooking-“
 
“That man isn’t concerned about me, he’s concerned about his stomach!” Patti cried.
 
“He’s worried about you! We both are!”
 
“Well, maybe you should worry about him! Why don’t you say anything about the fact that he spends more time with tiny trains than he does with his wife?”
 
“That’s his hobby, Mom,” Mary said evenly.
 
“I’m afraid I’ve got to go, dear. The chicken won’t defrost itself.”
 
She said a quick goodbye before her temper ran further away from her. It had broken her heart when Mary and her family had moved across the country. Patti felt rudderless, she ached for her grandchildren and their beautiful chaos.
 
Yet Mary still judged Patti’s life from afar, a life she now knew nothing about. It was different with Richard, Mary had always thought the world of her father. He could do no wrong, and now it seemed Patti could do no right.
 
She paced, her feet propelled by her conviction. There were people now, eighty-seven of them, in fact, who found the writing she did valuable. They found her valuable, which was more than she could say for her husband.
 
That night, Richard paused before entering the living room, sensing the discontentment that awaited him inside.
 
“Hi, Patti,” he said cautiously.
 
“Evening, Richard.”
 
“What’s for-“
 
Patti raised her hand to silence him. “I swear, Richard, if you ask me what’s for dinner, you will be eating Cup of Soup of the rest of your natural born life.”
 
He visibly swallowed.
 
“Is everything OK, Patricia?” He used her full name when he sensed an argument, a tactic that made Patti feel like a scolded child.
 
“No, actually, it isn’t. It hasn’t been for a while, Richard. You don’t touch me, you barely even look at me. The conversations we have are about dinner or trains or whether we should get a doorbell with a video camera. Do you even love me anymore?”
 
“Of course, I do!”
 
“Then show me! Let’s go away. Just the two of us, no children, no grandchildren. Just us, Richard. We can leave tomorrow, we don’t even need a destination. We’ll just drive!”
 
His eyes returned to their familiar spot above her head, and Patti’s heart sank.
 
“I would love to. Truly, Patricia. It’s just tomorrow, well, the club is hosting the Regional Model Train meet up.”
 
She knew the tears were imminent and wanted to be alone for their arrival.
 
“I’m sleeping in the guest room tonight.”
 
Patti was out of the room before she had to listen to another one of his excuses.
 
Sometime around midnight, she rose groggily, cursing her bladder. She was halfway to the bathroom when she noticed the light coming from the living room.
 
Richard was sitting in front of the computer. Patti didn’t need to move any closer, she immediately recognized the comforting background of “Wilde Women.” She edged towards him. Patti wanted to read his expression, his reaction to her stories, before he got a chance to hide it.
 
He was smiling, that was clear. It was a gentle smile, though, with none of the sarcastic malice she had seen him wear before.
 
“What are you doing?” she asked.
 
“Patti! God, you scared me.”
 
 “Good. Now, do you want to tell me what you’re doing?”
 
“Reading. Patti, your story, it’s,” he shook his head. “Amazing.”
 
“Don’t make fun of me, Richard. I know you hate her books.”
 
“I don’t hate them! They’re completely ridiculous-“
 
Patti turned to leave.
 
“-but your work isn’t! I mean it, Patti. You’ve stripped away all the fantastical stuff, and you’ve made the characters real. Flawed. Human. To tell you the truth, this Orlando and Rosalind, they kind of remind me of us. When we were younger, of course.”
 
Patti smiled in spite of herself. “Some of it may have been inspired by true events.”
 
“Inspired by? That scene where the boat capsizes was straight out of our honeymoon!”
 
She laughed, and soon they were both struggling for breath. She couldn’t remember the last time they had laughed like that. It filled her with both happiness and confusion.  
 
“It’s wonderful, Patti,” Richard said sincerely.
 
“Thank you.”
 
He reached for her and she let herself be pulled into his arms. “Let’s do it. The trip, let’s go tomorrow.”
 
Slowly, she removed herself from his embrace. “I’m glad you liked my work, Richard. But after we spoke, I did some thinking.”
 
She took his hands in hers. “There’s a writer’s retreat run by one of the Wilde Women. I’m going to go. I need to do this, Richard. For me.”
 
She kissed him gently and went back to bed, not waiting for his reply. She no longer needed his permission.
 
The next morning, Patti woke up to the smell of smoke. She walked into the kitchen, which was now covered in flour, as was Richard. Something that possibly used to be bacon was resting in a pan, and Richard was frantically jabbing buttons on the oven. He caught Patti’s eye as she entered, and they both burst out laughing.
 
“It looks more like the Battle of Dunkirk than the Masterchef kitchen, doesn’t it?” Richard asked.
 
“Yes, if the Battle of Dunkirk had been fought with self-rising flour,” Patti replied.
 
Richard opened the oven and they both peered inside.
 
“What’s it supposed to be?”
 
“Coal.”
 
They both collapsed into giggles again. When they caught their breath, Richard pulled her towards him.
 
“I’m going to try harder, Patti. I’m going to show you. I haven’t quite figured out how, yet. But I will.”
 
“I know you will.” Patti looked up at him and smiled. “And when in doubt, just ask yourself- what would Orlando do?”
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
","August 16, 2023 09:15","[[{'Teresa Kubo': ""I really loved your story Melissa! As a woman looking at midlife, your story really pulled me in. Where are our eyebrows going anyway? I delighted in Patti's secret pleasure, and in it blossoming into an outlet for her. Thank you for the fun read."", 'time': '05:49 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,b10ej5,Sunny View Guest Home,Teresa Kubo,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/b10ej5/,/short-story/b10ej5/,Fiction,0,"['Romance', 'Fiction', 'Funny']",7 likes,"
This story was inspired by a photo taken in 1953 in front of the “Sunny View Guest Home” in Helena, Montana. It can be seen on the web at http://www.helenahistory.org/sunnyview.htm. 
 
How could he! Ruth was furious. She had told him specifically that she did not want to be included in the “happy group photo.” The other residents of the Sunny View Guest Home might be happy to pander to Mr. Jonathan Dumas, the tall, striking owner, by allowing their likenesses to be used to sell the lie that was Sunny View, but Ruth had standards. She sat apart from her less scrupulous house mates and was promised by Mr. Dumas that she was out of the frame. And yet when she opened the paper this morning, there was a half-page advert for Sunny View in the Helena Times that very much included her. She recalled him saying what a shame it would be to not have her lovely face included in the photo and her blood boiled. He had clearly lied to her. 
 
As far as Ruth was concerned, the Sunny View Guest Home could not have been more of a misnomer. According to her neatly kept records, Helena, Montana received 82 days of sun in 1952. This was hardly Palm Springs. And they most certainly were not guests. Guests are those to whom hospitality and entertainment is offered, and it is assumed that they will not stay indefinitely. Alas, the “guests” at Sunny View were there for the duration. Even the ad in the paper made this clear in its fine print, which declared Sunny View a “Permanent Home for the Aged.” Ruth wondered how many of her house mates were aware that they would never be checking out. This would be the longest, dullest, and most flavorless vacation of their lives.
 
The unexpected shock of seeing her image associated with this den of boredom caused Ruth to reevaluate her plans. She had been planning to leave once her nephew sold the ranch, but now she was unsure she could wait. The ranch should have been hers outright, but unbeknownst to her, her late husband, Jake, had drafted a will leaving the ranch to their next male kin. Since they had no living children, the courts had determined that after Jake’s sudden death, their nephew, Christopher, should inherit the ranch. Ruth was shocked at this turn of events, but she did remember she and Jake talking about drafting the will over 50 years ago, just after she gave birth to their son. Their son had been a sickly infant and she had been so preoccupied with caring for him that she hadn’t realized that Jake had acted on their conversation. When their infant son died from tuberculosis before he even turned a year, they had been so distraught that they had never given a second thought to the will. They threw themselves into the work of maintaining the ranch, and never conceived again. When Ruth reached out to Christopher to explain all of this, he seemed to take the news in stride. He agreed that Jake would have left the ranch to Ruth had he ever revisited the will after his son’s death. He had agreed to sell the ranch and split the proceeds with Ruth. Ruth agreed to move out to facilitate the sale and everything seemed to be going according to plan, until it wasn’t. The problem was that Christopher lived in New York, and was showing himself to be a highly unmotivated seller. Ruth decided that she could be motivated enough for the both of them. If she wanted to leave Sunny View she needed money. And she needed to leave. Now. 
 
Ruth, feeling a mix of rage and frustration, stormed into the communal parlor of the guest house. This was where the singular telephone was available for the use of residents. It goaded her that she must make private calls within possible earshot of the other residents but the parlor was thankfully empty when she entered. She picked up the handset and asked the operator to connect her to her nephew’s office line. Fortunately, he picked up the call. “This is Christopher Watkins,” he said in a polished, professional voice. 
 
“Christopher, it’s Aunt Ruth. We need to talk about the ranch.”
 
“Oh, hi Aunt Ruthie. Listen, I’m really busy today. Maybe we could talk about this over the weekend?”
 
“No. Now you listen to me, Christopher. You don’t understand what it’s like for me here. I am surrounded by a bunch of animated corpses eating pudding. Their idea of an enriching afternoon is tea on the front lawn. I don’t like tea, Christopher. I like coffee. Cowboy coffee. And I like cowboys, and horses, and dirt under my fingernails. I feel myself getting softer and duller by the day. I agreed to move here to make it easier for you to sell the ranch. Now I need you to follow up on your end of the bargain and make the sale. Once I have my portion I can find a small piece of property and I can get back to living life – not watching it slowly leak out of old wrinkly –”
 
“Ruthie!” Christopher interrupted, “That’s disgusting. And don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic? I’ve seen the ads for Sunny View and it looks like a great place!”
 
“Don’t get me started about those damned ads!” Ruthie hollered. “They used my picture without my permission and I’m planning to sneak into the rooms of Mr. Dumas tonight to cut his laces and replace his toothpaste with my hemorrhoid cream.”
 
“Don’t be a menace, Aunt Ruthie! I’m working on it. I really am. I need you to be patient. My representative, Mr. Adams, is still in Billings and he won’t make it over to Helena to sign the necessary paperwork until the end of the month.”
 
“The end of the month!” yelled Ruth “Why can’t I serve as your representative? I could sign whatever needs to be signed tomorrow!”
 
“You’re not a lawyer, Aunt Ruthie and I don’t have time to find a different one.”
 
“What if I can find us a different lawyer? One that doesn’t visit Helena once every blue moon?”
 
“Listen. If you find us a lawyer that can work with us on a shorter timeframe, I’m willing to entertain a switch, but there just aren’t that many lawyers in Helena.”
 
“I’ll call you when I have one.”
 
“Fine, Aunt Ruthie. Talk to you soon. Love you.”
 
“Hmph. I love you too.” Ruth replaced the handset and looked around, startled to see that she was no longer alone in the parlor. Seated in one of the overstuffed armchairs in the corner of the room was none other than the current source of her greatest ire, Mr. Jonathan Dumas. 
 
“Ruth,” Jonathan said in a quiet voice, “I am so sorry your image was included in the advertisement. I am rather unskilled with these new cameras and I really thought I’d kept you out of the frame. When the picture was developed I was surprised, but I did ask the fellow at the ad desk to edit the image. Clearly he did not, and I’m sorry.”
 
Ruth shifted uncomfortably wondering just how much he had overheard. She was still angry, but it occurred to her that perhaps she was merely directing her anger at this man because he was a convenient target. He wasn’t really a bad person, or even a bad manager. He was giving people without options a place to live out their days. Perhaps she was just angry that she was feeling trapped by life’s circumstances. And here was this man, nearly the same age as her, who did not seem to be trapped. He was in control of his own destiny, running a “guest home” for the elderly, and clearly did not consider himself among the “aged.” Ruth sighed. “I’m sorry for losing my temper. I am just frustrated and this place makes me feel so old!”
 
“I’ve never thought of you as old, Ruth,” Jonathan said in his quiet baritone. “Ever since you arrived, I’ve been grateful for the spark of life you’ve brought to the place. I know Sunny View will only be your home temporarily, and I’ll be sorry to see you go. Even if you dislike our cooking and threaten my foot comfort and oral health.” He smiled wryly. 
 
“Oh! That was all just bluster!” Ruth rushed to say, “I hope you know I would never really – “
 
“I know, I know...” Jonathan laughed, “and I really didn’t mean to eavesdrop – I just wanted to let you know I’d overheard so we could clear the air. I also hope you know I really wouldn’t mind if you did come by sometime – without malicious intent.”
 
Ruth could feel herself starting to blush. Was this man flirting with her? It rather felt that he was. It had been years since a man had made her blush and she couldn’t quite categorize the discomfort it made her feel. She was feeling too many emotions today. She decided to deflect. “Well, if you were a lawyer, I’d make myself a regular visitor!”
 
“Is that so?” he asked, “well that’s interesting because while I’m no longer practicing I do still have my law license.”
 
“What?” Ruth exclaimed “Do you know about real estate?”
 
“That was actually my primary area of expertise.” He said smiling.
 
Ruth proceeded to explain the situation with the will, her ranch, and her nephew. Jonathan told her he was glad to help and they proceeded to call her nephew together. Christopher was only slightly surprised at the speed at which his aunt had secured a new lawyer and agreed to make the necessary arrangements to have him serve as his representative. 
 
The ranch went up for sale only a week later, the contract carefully worded to ensure that Ruth would get her full portion of the sale. 
Two weeks after that, the ranch sold to a rancher from California, who felt there were simply too many people moving into that state. 
 
Ruth took her money and purchased a farmhouse with enough land for a big garden and one horse. She was delighted she would be able to go for her daily rides once again. 
 
Once she was settled in her new place, she invited Jonathan over for dinner to thank him for his help. He brought her a rosebush that she could plant in her new yard. “It’s beautiful, Jonathan, thank you,” she said, “and here I am supposed to be the one doing nice things for you!”
 
“You already have,” he said, “You’ve reminded me the importance living life to its fullest. I want you to know that thanks to you I have instituted a number of changes at Sunny View.”
 
“Really?” Ruth said, a little stunned.
 
“Yes – it seems our activities may have been a bit dull for some, so we now have a full suite of available options, from gardening and quilting to bicycling and even snow shoeing and cross-country skiing in the winter. And we’ve spiced up our menu, though to be honest I’m not sure how well that change is being received. You would be surprised at how many people seem to dislike pepper.”
 
Ruth laughed, “Maybe someday I’ll be inclined to join you again!”
 
Jonathan smiled, “Maybe someday you’ll feel inclined to keep me company as we organize these adventures together.”
 
“I think I might just like that,” she said with a wink as she clinked her glass against his. 
","August 16, 2023 20:55",[]
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,4ww0wd,Count Massey,George Georgerfrost@gmail.com,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/4ww0wd/,/short-story/4ww0wd/,Fiction,0,"['African American', 'Historical Fiction']",7 likes,"
 
	The fire at the Cascade Arms in Roseland was a five alarm blaze that reduced the place to rubble. I was working the swing shift at Advocate Trinity Hospital when the ambulances brought in a half dozen of the residents suffering from smoke inhalation. 
	The neighborhood around Cascade Arms is predominantly black and poor. Known to most folks as Section Eight Housing.  I don’t live far from there and I am all of those things, too. 
	During my senior year, I became part of a special program where I receive training as a medical aide for a future career in the medical field.  I hate to brag, but this is a much better outcome than a lot of my classmates from Buchanan High School, because half of the student body is serving their first prison term for possession. 
	Assigned to the swing shift from 4 pm to midnight, I sometimes get to see first hand the damage being done by people facing the worst demons of addiction.  
	“Brecker, give me a hand with this one.” Slim Walton called out as they wheeled this octogenarian patient on a gurney with an oxygen tube already placed over in his nose. Slim accurately describes his physical presence.  
	“Sure.” I hustled over to the side of the gurney.
	“He’s pretty feisty.” Slim warned. Slim accurately describes his physical presence. Sometimes he looks like an unlit match with his tall lean shape wrapped in his scrubs and his unruly afro shooting out from his head.  Slim has been at Advocate for almost ten years and has been through just about every medical emergency you can imagine.  He is my mentor who weekly signs off my training records. 
	“I punch ya righteously.” The elderly man raised his fists just to emphasize the point. 
	“Says his name is George Bryson.” Slim read it off the report the ambulance crew handed Slim.
	“Dat’s raght.” He coughed.
	“Take it easy old-timer.” Slim shook his head. “He’s-”
	“Ain’ no old timer.  Doncha give me that-” He struggled to get up.
	“Hey, hey, lie back.” I put my hand on his emaciated sunken chest.
	“I ain’ gonna…” He pouted. 
	“Feisty, right?” Slim shook his head. “Put him in Room 14 up ahead.” 
	“How are you feeling, Mr. Bryce?” I asked as Slim turned the gurney into the room.
	“I’m fine.  Wanna go home.” He squawked.  
	“You don’t have a home anymore.  The place went up in smoke.” I explained. 
	“I didn’ have nuthin’ to do with it.” He poked his bony finger into my side.
	“Never said you did.” I put my hand out to prevent him from continuing to poke me in the side. 
	He was a black male whose age was undetermined with a naked dome and silver hair surrounding his bald head like a halo.  Slim was right in saying he was an octogenarian.  Even if he wasn’t eighty years old, he was coming up to that neighborhood quickly.  Slim left to assist with other patients coming in from the Cascade Arms.
	“Do you have any relatives we need to get a hold of, Mr. Bryce?” I asked as part of my routine questioning. 
	“None thats wants to talk to me.” He shook his head. 
	Nobody?
	Yeah, that figures.  Most people who live in that part of Chicago don’t have anyone keeping tabs on them.  
	Dr. Bolden walked in already gloved and gowned. “Who we got here Landry?”
	“George Bryce.” I answered.
	“Well Mr. Bryce, we are going to have a look at you to make sure you’re in good shape.” Dr. Bolden was a very outgoing ER doctor who made an effort to build a rapport with some of the patients who came into our ER.  
	“I’m in good shape, lemme tell ya.” His high pitched voice rang out.
	“We got some patients from your apartment complex who got hurt in that fire.” Dr. Bolden looked at Mr. Bryce over his glasses. “How old are you?”
	“I’m old enough.” He nodded. 
	“How ‘bout a number?” Dr. Bolden glanced over at me. 
	“Eighty three.” He scowled. 
	“And we want to be sure we take very good care of you.” Dr. Bolden nodded, “If you want to go, Landry, feel free.  Me and Mr. Bryce are going to have a look under the hood.” 
 
	Growing up, my grandpa told me about the excitement of the Cotton Club in Harlem where he worked as a busboy before the war.  
	“Let me tell you about The Cotton Club on 142cd Street in Harlem.  Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and Bessie Smith all came to perform there.  Man, those were the days.” He would tell me before he passed away from some kind of cancer mama didn’t want to talk about.  I remember how my grandpa Waldo Young would tell me all kinds of stories as he sat in his chair.  Mama would roll her eyes when he started telling one of his famous yarns.  She would tell me how her father would liberally mix fiction in when he told one of his stories of his life. It doesn’t matter, because I still enjoyed listening to his smooth, calm voice as he told one of his stories. 
	No one argued with him about his time in the 92cd Infantry in Italy.  It was a colored unit supporting the Fifth Army as they fought their way up the peninsula.  His uniform was hung proudly in his closet in his room that he occupied after grandma passed away from a heart condition.
	“Yeah, that was one heck of a fight back then.  Hitler threw everything he had at us as we came up from Sicily.  Lost some close friends.” He would say, his eyes glistening with tears.  
	“Dad, please don’t tell him any of the stories you told me when I was a kid.” She would warn him.
	“I know…I know.” His voice was thick. 
 
	“How is Mr. Bryce?” I asked Dr. Bolden later when I saw him at the station filling out paperwork. 
	“He is a hard one, Landry.” He chuckled. “He told me he once played at the Cotton Club in Harlem.” 
	“No kidding, my grandpa told me he used to work there before the war.” I shook my head.
	“I must say his story was pretty fantastic, but then I question some of his memories.” He sighed.
	“How come?” I asked.
	“He has evidence of advanced Altizimers.” He shrugged. “He said his stage name was Count Massey. Go figure.” 
	Like when I listened to my grandpa, I wanted his stories to be real and while I did not know Mr. Bryce very well, I felt he deserved to have someone listen and believe in what he had to say.  
	“Was he discharged?” I asked.
	“Naw, not yet.” Dr. Bolden shook his head, “And if we discharge him, he doesn’t have anywhere to go.  We’re kinda stuck on this one.” 
	I saw the dilemma.  
 
	“I am not running a boarding house.” My mama told me as she stood at the bottom of the stairs with her car keys in her hand, ready to run off to work at the store in the mall.  I had just asked her about George Bryce staying in the spare room until Section Eight could find him another place to live. “He’s an eighty three year old man.  He needs to be in a nursing home where I should have put my own father when he got bad.” 
	“He’s just like grandpa.  He used to work at the Cotton Club.” I added hoping to improve my case. 
	“Your grandpa never worked there, Landry.” She put her hands on her hips which meant I was not going to win this argument. “He lived in Harlem before he went off to war, but that was it.” 
	“His stage name was Count Massey.” I shrugged.  She gave me a look like she could not believe she was listening to my nonsense. 
	“I am going to be late for work.  Watch your brother until Mrs. Smith comes over to watch him.” She shook her head as she walked out the door.  In a minute she was on her way to work leaving me to feel defeated.  
 
	“Gangsters used to come in.  I mean like Lucky Luciano.” Grandpa would tell me as he sat in his chair after watching The Price is Right. 
	“Dad, don’t fill his head with all that nonsense.” Mama would call him from the kitchen.
	“Bah.” He would wave his hand, “She, she is always telling me not to do this or not to do that.” 
 
	“So what did your mom say?” Slim asked on our break in the staff room as we sipped on our sodas.
	“No.” I pouted.
	“You didn’t really expect her to say yes, did you?” He laughed. 
	“We had grandpa living there before he died and her sister with ALS until she died.” I explained.
	“Maybe she’s tired of hospice care.” Slim shook his head.
	“Yeah, funny.” 
	“C’mon Lan, she has never met Mr. Bryce.  He could be a serial killer for all she knows.” Slim said before slurping the last of his soda, “C’mon we gotta get back.” 
	Later there were three gunshot victims and one fentanyl overdose.  In between emergencies, I managed to check on Mr. Bryce.  He was sleeping soundly, so I let him be.  
 
	“Count Basie, Ella Fitzgerald, Fats Waller, Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie, Nat King Cole, Billie Holiday, and Ethel Waters.  And Cab Calloway leading the orchestra.  That Landry was the Golden Age of Jazz.” Grandpa would close his eyes as he recalled the magic of this place. “Bah-bah-bah-bah followed by four more beats then a quick change on the third measure Be-bah. Be-bah. Be-bah. Be-bah.  It was magic.  The arrangement made you want to move your feet.  Wonderful.  Wonderful. Your grandma and me would spend hours dancing to them tunes.  I’ll never forget the way she’d look up at me while we was dancin.’ It was pure magic.  Pure magic.” 
 
	“He’s asking for you.” Dr. Bolden came into the breakroom as we were getting ready to leave.
	“Me?” I was confused.
	“Yeah.  He woke up for some reason.” Dr. Bolden crossed his arms over his scrubs, “I still have no idea what they are going to do with him.” 
	“I asked my mom and she gave me a flat no.” I shook my head.
 
	“Pull up a chair.” Mr. Bryce waved to the empty chair next to his bed.
	“You wanted to see me?” 
	“I did.” His voice was clear, “I’ve been told you had a grandpa who worked at the Cotton Club.” 
	“Yes sir.” 
	“What did he tell you about the place?” He asked with his eyes open wide.
	“About the entertainers mostly.” 
	“I was once one of them, you know.” He smiled and sat back in the bed. “I played the piano for Billie Holiday.  She was so sweet, I tell ya.”  He sniffed, “It was a great time to be alive.  I sat and chatted with Langston Hughes one night when the music was on fire.” 
	I sat on the edge of my chair as he nodded like these folks were right there in the room with us.  
	“I met Groucho Marx.” He laughed, “He sat there and cracked me up with all of his one liners. He’s the one who called me a count, likes I was royalty or sumpton. Count Massey.  That’s me.”
	He closed his eyes as tears rolled down his face, “Of course, it was a place where black folks could go and not have to worry about what they could and could not say.  Back then they’d lock ya up if’n ya disrespected a white person, but in dat place, anything went.  We got to be ourselves.  We got to say what was on our mind.  We danced the way we was meant to dance. I was the Great and Honorable Count Massey.  That name came from my father.  Massey.  He was the man took my daddy away wearing a white hood.  Next time I seen him, he be hanging from a tree.”
	He paused for a moment to recompose himself.  I could see how troubled he was carrying that memory.
	“I lay in the bushes when he come riding in his buckboard.  I raised up where he could see me as I pulled the trigger of the shotgun my daddy owned.  I heard him cry out as he fell from his wagon.  I know’d I’d have to be leaving Mississippi right then.  Never even got to say goodbye to my mama.  Just caught a box car to St. Louis and then hitched on a train to New York.  When I needed money, I played piano for it. Things was diff’rent back then.”
	His voice was just a harsh rasp.  He closed his eyes again and I left the room knowing he needed to rest.  I had goosebumps when I walked out his room.
	“What did the old man say?” Dr. Bolden asked, standing behind the nurse’s station counter. 
	“What it was like to play piano at the Cotton Club.” I answered. 
	“Do you believe him?” He asked.
	“Why wouldn’t I believe him?” 
	“Because he’s not reliable.” Dr. Bolden said.
	“How do you know?” I was a bit irritated.
	“No reason.  He was just delusional earlier in the day.  Well, he was talking to God when I walked into the room.” Dr. Bolden shrugged.
	“Prayer-”
	“Landry, he wasn’t praying, he was arguing with God.  He was telling God a thing or two.” Dr. Bolden tilted his head, “He has been here before.  He comes in for pain medication.  Apparently he knows someone who will give him a handful of medication.  Happens all the time.  I wish I could stop it, but I know I can’t.”
 
	“Dad!” Mama cried when he was trying to get out the front door.
	“I needs to go home.” His voice was heavy with emotion, “Your mama needs me.” 
	“Dad, mama’s been gone for eight years.” She told him, taking his hand.
	“Can’t be true, honey, can’t be.” He shook his head. 
	“It is dad.  It is.” She led him back to his chair.
	“I jus’ wan’s to go home, honey.” His voice was pleading.
	“Dad, this is your home.” She shook her head as he sat down.
	“No honey, I gots a home down the road.  It has silk curtains and nice tapestry on the floors.” He insisted.
	“Take your medication.” She held the pills in her hand.
	“No, I won.’ Dem pills be makin’ me sicker.” He shook his head and kept his mouth closed so she could not shove them in his mouth. 
 
	“Landry, if you want to keep in your program, I suggest you report to Mr. Walton, pronto.” Head Nurse Wanda Pallor snapped when she saw me sitting in a chair in the waiting room wiping up my tears.
	“Yes ma’am.” I stood up.
	“Where’s ya been, Lan?” Slim asked as he swung a mop across the floor.
	“I was told to find you if I wanted to keep in the program.” I was steamed.
	“Ah, you must’ve run into Nurse Pallor.” He smiled.
	“How did you know?” 
	“She be the only one say stuff like that.” He waved his finger at me. “Hey, it’s been pretty slow tonight after all that fuss earlier.  Why doncha take an early walk home?” 
	“Won’t Nurse Pallor get mad?” 
	“She’s already mad.  Mad as a hatter.” He laughed. “So how was old Mr. Bryce?” 
	“He told me stories about the Cotton Club.” 
	“Yeah, we gots place along the shore that are just as famous.  We got ribs and the blues.  Ribs and blues.  I’ll take out to one of them places.” Slim rinsed his mop in the bucket.
	“Alright, it’s a date…well not like that.” I laughed.
	“Keep it light, dude.” He winked as I turned to leave. 
 
	When I got to Advocate the next day, Slim caught me in the hall.
	“Gotsome bad news.” His head hung low.
	“Wha’ up?” 
	“Mr. Bryce managed to get on the roof.  One of the security guards said he was having an argument with somebody up there.” He pointed to the ceiling, “And then he stepped off the ledge.”
	“Oh no.” I felt as if someone had punched me right in the gut.
	“Are you gonna be okay?” He asked as I collapsed into a chair.
	“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” I sucked in some air. “Bah-bah-bah-bah followed by four more beats then a quick change on the third measure Be-bah. Be-bah. Be-bah. Be-bah and start all over again Bah-bah-bah-bah.” 
	“What?” Slim’s face twisted into a question mark.
	“It’s the blues.” 
	“The blues?” Slim shrugged. 
	“Yeah…” I could hear the blue notes as they fell from the stars above. 
 
","August 11, 2023 23:53","[[{'Иляя Илчка': 'https://themyelitedatequest.life/?u=0uww0kv&o=1e0px26', 'time': '18:00 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Иляя Илчка': 'люблю масяныча', 'time': '18:00 Sep 10, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Vid Weeks': 'great ending', 'time': '20:53 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Thank you, Vid.  \nGeorge', 'time': '21:20 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Thank you, Vid.  \nGeorge', 'time': '21:20 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Rabab Zaidi': 'Interesting', 'time': '14:27 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Thank you, Rabab.  History is never static or set.  Everybody has a story that should be listened to. \nGeorge', 'time': '21:20 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': 'Thank you, Rabab.  History is never static or set.  Everybody has a story that should be listened to. \nGeorge', 'time': '21:20 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'George Georgerfrost@gmail.com': ""That's why we should listen to their stories. When I tell someone some of my adventures, they sound like fiction. \n\nThank you Mary for believing."", 'time': '23:30 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Mary Bendickson': 'So glad someone believed him.', 'time': '00:42 Aug 13, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,glmlq8,Echo of Darkness: The Secret Within Beatrice Cunningham.,Brandon Hunt,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/glmlq8/,/short-story/glmlq8/,Fiction,0,"['Crime', 'Mystery', 'Horror']",7 likes,"
In the peaceful town of Willowbrook, nestled between rolling hills and meandering streams, life flowed at a leisurely pace. The townspeople knew each other by name, and the scent of freshly baked pastries often wafted through the streets. It was a place where time seemed to stand still, and everyone felt safe within the embrace of the community.
 
One crisp autumn morning, the tranquility of Willowbrook was disrupted by an unexpected visitor at the local police station. The officers exchanged puzzled glances as a petite, white-haired woman with bright eyes and a warm smile entered the station. She introduced herself as Beatrice Cunningham, an 89-year-old resident of the town.
 
With a gentle chuckle, Beatrice began to speak, her voice carrying an air of innocence that belied her years. She confessed to a series of murders that spanned six decades, claiming that she was responsible for taking the lives of several individuals. The detectives exchanged incredulous glances, unsure whether to take her confession seriously or dismiss it as a delusion.
 
""Sweetie, I understand this might be hard to believe,"" Beatrice said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. ""But I have a memory like a sieve these days. Can't recall what I had for breakfast, but those names and places are etched in my mind, clear as day.""
 
The detectives, Detective Sarah Adams and Detective Michael Harris, exchanged another glance. With a sigh, Detective Adams leaned forward, her expression a mix of curiosity and skepticism. ""Alright, Ms. Cunningham. Why don't you tell us more about these incidents? We'll do our best to investigate, but we need all the information you can provide.""
 
Beatrice's face lit up with enthusiasm. ""Oh, dear, where should I start? You see, it all began in 1960 when I was a spry young thing of 29. My first victim was a no-good scoundrel named Stanley, who thought he could swindle the townspeople out of their hard-earned money.""
 
As Beatrice recounted the details of the first murder, the detectives began to take notes. She spoke with remarkable clarity, describing the events, names, and locations involved in each case. The more she spoke, the more Detective Adams felt a shiver run down her spine. There was an eerie conviction in Beatrice's voice, and the details were so specific that it was hard to dismiss her claims outright.
 
Over the course of the day, Beatrice shared the stories of several more murders, each spanning a different decade. Detective Harris and Detective Adams listened attentively, their skepticism slowly giving way to a sense of unease. There was something about Beatrice's demeanor that made it hard to brush off her confession as mere ramblings.
 
With a newfound determination, the detectives decided to take Beatrice's claims seriously and launched an investigation. They began with the earliest case she had mentioned, working their way through old records and speaking to anyone who might have information about the incidents. The townspeople, initially skeptical, soon started to recall strange occurrences and unexplained disappearances from the past.
 
As Detective Adams delved into the case, she found herself developing a sense of respect and even fondness for Beatrice. The old woman's charm and wit were undeniable, but Detective Adams couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to her story than met the eye.
 
Days turned into weeks as the detectives painstakingly pieced together the puzzle. The evidence they gathered painted a disturbing picture, linking the names and locations Beatrice had mentioned to unsolved cases from decades ago. The pieces were falling into place, but the more they discovered, the more baffling the situation became.
 
One evening, Detective Adams sat across from Beatrice in the small interrogation room. ""Ms. Cunningham, we've been working hard on these cases, and the evidence seems to support your claims. But we need to know the truth. How did you manage to remember all these details after all these years?""
 
Beatrice smiled, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of mischief and wisdom. ""Oh, my dear, memories may fade, but some things never truly leave us. Each name, each place, they were etched into my soul. You see, I've been carrying these stories for so long, and I couldn't bear to take them to the grave without sharing them.""
 
As the investigation continued, the town of Willowbrook found itself grappling with a chilling truth. The sweet, elderly Beatrice Cunningham had indeed been responsible for a series of murders, spanning decades. The detectives struggled to reconcile the woman they had come to know with the crimes she had committed. It was a mystery that defied easy explanations, a blend of darkness and innocence that would forever haunt their perceptions of the world.
 
And as the truth unraveled, Willowbrook learned that even the coziest of places can hide the most unsettling secrets, and that within the heart of even the most unassuming individuals, a world of mystery and darkness can reside.
 
As the investigation continued, the town of Willowbrook found itself grappling with a chilling truth. The sweet, elderly Beatrice Cunningham had indeed been responsible for a series of murders, spanning decades. The detectives struggled to reconcile the woman they had come to know with the crimes she had committed. It was a mystery that defied easy explanations, a blend of darkness and innocence that would forever haunt their perceptions of the world.
 
And as the truth unraveled, Willowbrook learned that even the coziest of places can hide the most unsettling secrets, and that within the heart of even the most unassuming individuals, a world of mystery and darkness can reside.
 
In the weeks that followed, the detectives meticulously pieced together the stories Beatrice had shared. Each name, each location, it all checked out. The evidence was irrefutable. Detective Adams spent hours with Beatrice, pressing her for details on how the murders had been carried out.
 
Beatrice's eyes would glisten with a mixture of nostalgia and something darker as she recounted her actions. With a chilling calmness, she described how she had lured Stanley into the woods with the promise of hidden treasure, only to end his life in a brutal act of violence. She went on to describe other victims—their fear, their pleading, and their ultimate demise.
 
Detective Adams felt a shiver run down her spine as she listened to the gruesome details. The calmness in Beatrice's voice was juxtaposed with the horrors she was describing, creating a sense of unease that seemed to permeate the very air around them.
 
But there was a particular story that left Detective Adams sleepless at night. Beatrice recounted an incident from the late 1970s, a murder that had taken place during a summer festival. She described how she had infiltrated the crowded event, her wrinkled face twisted into a wicked grin as she explained the meticulous planning that had gone into the act.
 
""I mingled with the crowd, my steps sure, my intentions concealed,"" Beatrice's voice dripped with eerie satisfaction. ""And when the fireworks lit up the night sky, I moved with the shadows, taking my time to choose my victim. The chaos of the celebration masked my actions, and by the time anyone realized, it was already too late.""
 
As Beatrice's words hung in the air, Detective Adams felt a cold sweat prickling her skin. The image of the festival, the joyous laughter, and the unsuspecting crowd contrasted sharply with the chilling intent that Beatrice had harbored. She tried to push the unsettling thoughts aside, but they lingered, festering like a dark presence in the corners of her mind.
 
Days turned into nights, and the investigation led to an astonishing discovery. The photographs from the festival showed a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Beatrice, captured among the revelers. Detective Adams stared at the image, her heart racing. It was Beatrice, there was no doubt about it. But the woman in the photo appeared far younger than an 80-year-old should have been at the time.
 
With a growing sense of dread, Detective Adams confronted Beatrice with the photograph. The old woman's eyes held a flicker of something sinister, a knowing glint that sent a shiver down the detective's spine. ""You see, dear, some secrets are kept in plain sight,"" Beatrice's voice held a sinister edge.
 
As Detective Adams pressed for answers, Beatrice leaned forward, her expression taking on an almost ethereal quality. ""I have a gift, a secret that has kept me young. A pact made long ago, a choice to exchange life for life.""
 
Detective Adams stared at Beatrice, her mind struggling to grasp the implications of what she was hearing. The woman before her claimed to have found a way to extend her own life by taking the lives of others. The horror of it all hit her like a tidal wave, drowning her in a sea of disbelief and terror.
 
The realization that Beatrice had not just been confessing, but boasting about her twisted longevity, left Detective Adams shaken to her core. The lines between innocence and malevolence, reality and the supernatural, were blurred in a way she had never imagined. She had entered the investigation with skepticism, only to uncover a nightmare that defied all logic.
 
As the investigation came to a close, Detective Adams stared at the photograph of Beatrice, her heart heavy with a mixture of revulsion and dread. The town of Willowbrook had been forever scarred by the truth that had been unearthed. The sweet, innocent façade had given way to a terror that was all too real, a terror that lay within the heart of a seemingly gentle old woman.
 
And so, as the sun set over Willowbrook, the once-cozy town was left with an unsettling truth—an elderly woman had shared her tales of horror, leaving behind a legacy of fear that would forever haunt their thoughts, reminding them that sometimes, the most terrifying monsters can hide behind the mask of age and innocence.
","August 17, 2023 03:09","[[{'David Elkind': ""Brandon,\n\nI liked the story a lot. You have clear, concise writing and a vivid imagination. The descriptions and the scenes were well-written and well thought out. I only had one problem with the story. Your description of bucolic Willowbrook seemed inconsistent with a place with this many murders, even one per decade. One way to solve the problem would  be to have the murders not unsolved, but unknown. A better way to do it would be to have the murders the town's little secret. Just a thought. You could easily turn this into a much longer p..."", 'time': '01:31 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Brandon Hunt': 'Hey thanks Dave, really good eye! I’ll definitely think about that one and see what I can do!', 'time': '07:39 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Brandon Hunt': 'Hey thanks Dave, really good eye! I’ll definitely think about that one and see what I can do!', 'time': '07:39 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Emilie Ocean': 'Thank you for sharing Echo of Darkness: The Secret Within Beatrice Cunningham.\nwith us, Brandon. The story began in the crime genre, and I like how it ended up being a dark fantasy / horror. Beatrice had no remorse haha Good on her!', 'time': '16:28 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Brandon Hunt': 'Hey thanks, I appreciate your comment. Means a lot!', 'time': '17:44 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Brandon Hunt': 'Hey thanks, I appreciate your comment. Means a lot!', 'time': '17:44 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,j8u6i4,The Missing Peace,David Williams,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/j8u6i4/,/short-story/j8u6i4/,Fiction,0,['Fiction'],7 likes,"
Every day was the same for Bryan, walking to and from work through the sea of people that make up the bustling city. Bryan is a tall and slender man in his mid-thirties with shaggy dirty blonde hair, his soft sleepy blue eyes make him somewhat unconventionally attractive. Bryan is too focused on his career to even attempt to find someone to share his time with, his days filled with long hours at the office, and even though he is not particularly happy with his job, it does pay well enough to enjoy a decent apartment with a dreamy view of the city. Most days, Bryan keeps his head down, oblivious to his surroundings during his morning commute to work, simply following the crowds of bodies from point A to point B, but today something was different. As Bryan crossed a busy intersection he noticed a park full of beautiful mature trees. He stood there for a moment to enjoy the scenery and his glance then shifted to a man sitting alone on a bench. The man was curiously watching the endlessly changing faces walking passed him. He was a finely dressed older man, a few decades off of today's current style, but never the less wore a nice suit. His pants looked freshly pressed and his shoes looked so shiny you could almost make out your reflection in them. The man had almost a full head of hair, tightly combed back off his face, it was almost all white, a reflection of his old age. Bryan took a moment to watch and with every person that passed, he noticed a sadness come across the old man's face. He could see how desperate he was for some sort of human interaction. Bryan looked down at his watch which read a quarter after 7:00 a.m. He didn't have to be in the office until 9:00 a.m., but most days he prided himself on being the first one in. He looked at the old man again and decided to move in. As he approached they locked eyes and Bryan said, ""Excuse me, sir, I couldn't help but notice you're sitting all alone. Are you waiting for someone?"" ""Sort of,"" replied the old man. ""Well, while you wait would you like to grab a cup of coffee? My treat!"" said Bryan. The man's eyes softened and a smile lit across his face, ""Yes I would like that very much."" Bryan looked around and noticed a diner just across the street, ""How about this place over here? I've never been but it looks like a nice enough place."" The man replied, ""It looks like a great spot to me!"" Bryan reached out his hand introducing himself, ""It's nice to meet you, my name is Bryan."" The man reciprocated the gesture, responding, ""My name is George."" The two made their way across the street. The diner had a resemblance of something you would see if you were around in the 50s. Sadly, it just wasn't able to be kept up over the years, and yet, still had a certain charm to it. Bryan tried making a joke upon entering to lighten the mood and clear any tension you might have when agreeing to sit down for coffee with a stranger, ""I'm sure a place like this makes you feel right at home."" ""Well, I guess you can say I've seen a few diners in my day,"" chuckled George. ""Take a seat where you like,"" said a waitress across the room as she poured a cup of coffee for the adjacent customer. The two made their way over to a corner booth. While waiting for the waitress to come to take their drink order, hoping to break the awkward silence, Bryan asked, ""Who were you waiting for?"" George didn't respond, he just sat there with his eyes focused on the people through the window. Bryan paused, waiting for George to answer but it was clear by his face that he wasn't going to. Bryan looked down and noticed George was wearing a wedding ring, ""Were you waiting for your wife? Or maybe your kids?"" George's eyes still fixated on the window, ""I don't have any family left, no friends, no kids, and my wife passed some time ago. I'm counting down the days until I can see her again, I guess you could say I'm just not ready to move on."" Bryan could see how upset he was by this, not sure of what to say that could make George feel better at this moment. Bryan uttered, ""Well I can be your friend George."" George's face glowed with excitement. ""You would want to be my friend? ""Yeah, sure why not, I don't have many friends myself,"" replied Bryan. The two spend the next hour talking and laughing just like old friends. George told Bryan about his wife which he sweetly referred to as 'the love of his life' and their long life together. Bryan looked at his watch to notice it was nearing 9:00 am and he thought to himself he ought to be getting to work. ""I'm enjoying talking with you George, but I do have to get to work soon,"" said Bryan, ""maybe we can exchange phone numbers and plan for another time to meet up."" George smiled and said he wishes that was possible but unfortunately, he wouldn't be able to see him again and it was now his time to go. Confused by this Bryan asked, ""What do you mean? Are you moving away?"" ""Something like that"" replied George. ""Well let me grab a piece of paper and a pen and give you my number. You can call to talk or if need anything at all."" Before Bryan could leave the booth George grabbed his hand and looked into his eyes and said ""Thank you for this, it feels as if I have been waiting forever for the right person to stop and talk to me, I can finally go home now."" Unsure of how to respond Bryan just replied, ""It was my pleasure. Just give me a second to grab some paper."" By the time Bryan returned to the booth, George was gone. Confused by this Bryan found their waitress and asked if she has seen where the older gentleman that he was sitting with went. The waitress looked at him with great concern before responding, ""Um honey, you weren't sitting with anyone. You've been here all alone talking to yourself."" Bryan was shocked by her response, ""What do you mean? I came in here with an older gentleman. We sat in that corner booth together for the past hour."" The waitress stood there staring at Bryan, ""You came in alone, ask everyone in this diner if you like."" Bryan frantically ran over to the booth to look for anything to prove the man existed but found nothing to help his case. He ran outside to see if maybe he could find the old man walking away, surely he couldn't have gotten far. Once outside, Bryan was met by a crowd of morning commuters, taking up all the space on the sidewalk. Trying to find the old man he looked across the street to see him standing there staring back. Before Bryan could make his way over, George lifted his hand and gave a friendly wave, then slowly started to fade away. Bryan wasn't sure if what he just witnessed was real and looked around for confirmation from anyone but no one seemed to take notice. He stood there in shock, trying to take in what had just happened and out of nowhere, an overwhelming feeling of calm and peace came over Bryan's body. He looked up into the sky to find the sun peaking through the clouds and an honest smile came across his face. Bryan turned around and started walking to work, becoming one with the sea of people again.
","August 17, 2023 18:31","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Nice story leaving you with all kinds of maybes as to what was happening with George. Lots of suspense.\nYou need to put in paragraph breaks to make it easier to read. Each time a different person speaks it needs to be a separate paragraph so the reader can tell who is speaking.\nWelcome to Reedsy.', 'time': '19:37 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'David Williams': 'Thanks for reading my story and the feedback.', 'time': '22:37 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'David Williams': 'Thanks for reading my story and the feedback.', 'time': '22:37 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Tricia Shulist': 'That was nice.  A meeting that had meaning for both Bryan and George.  Thank you for this.', 'time': '16:34 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'David Williams': 'Thank you for reading my story and the comment, I appreciate it!', 'time': '23:36 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'David Williams': 'Thank you for reading my story and the comment, I appreciate it!', 'time': '23:36 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,jg0qpn,Willoughby's March,David Ader,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/jg0qpn/,/short-story/jg0qpn/,Fiction,0,"['American', 'Historical Fiction']",7 likes,"
Willoughby clutched into the soggy ground trying to get lower. Around him bullets popped into the mud, splashing him. Thousands of them hundreds of thousands? How many men did they have? He was soaked from it all. There was a boom off to the left. Artillery. The boom just went on as if a whole line of cannons were firing in turn. He dug further praying the shells would pass over head. Then there was that smell, that sharp stench of burning Sulphur, acrid smoke, men so frightened they soiled themselves. 
 
	“Mister Willoughby!” He turned his head to see the massive white figure standing over him. The figure called for help. It kneeled and gently took his arm. He wanted to yell, ‘Get down you fool.’ He wanted to claw deeper to safety. But he knew that wasn’t the thing to say, not here, not now.
	“Honestly, Mister Willoughby, what are you doing on the floor?” said the figure.
	“I can get up without your paws all over me,” he groused. He got to his knees, hands on the ground, and stuck there. “Okay then, give me a boost.”
	The large nurse lifted him like a feather, just like that, like picking up a tossed-away tissue. He’d once been a big man, nearly two hundred pounds, with a belly that would push the watch at the end of its chain out of his pocket. Too fat, he supposed. But he’d earned that surely. It was a mark of achievement. He’d been, once, a prosperous fellow and had the stomach to show for it even if needed help getting up on a horse. 
	“And, oh Mister Willoughby, I think you had an accident.”
	He looked up, confused. He couldn’t see anything, not in the dark; it was still night. Why would they attack in the night? A flash of light illuminated the scene for him.
	 Willoughby was on the floor of his room. The bullets? No more than thick rain splattering the windowpanes. The blast? A close clap of thunder. The flash? Lightening. All that would let up soon, he knew that. Rain this hard came on fast and left just as quickly, hightailing it back to the cover of the clouds to disperse, recover, and rally again some other day. 
	The nurse helped him back onto his bed. Willoughby had to shake his head, a gesture that he felt immediately in the eternally sore muscles and creaking vertebrae of his neck. The discomfort didn’t bother him any more than the memories the pelting rain brought up. There were a lot of happy memories in there as well. “I’m getting old,” he thought. He coughed up a laugh. Silly old geezer. 
	 “Now get some rest. You have a busy day ahead,” said the nurse.
	Another day, he thought, one he couldn’t wait to see come to an end. He tried some mental math; 365 days in a year times 103 years would be? He lost count but concluded more than enough. 
	Willoughby shook his head at that thought, too, though more gently this time. Couldn’t wait for the day to end? Hell, he should be grateful for every second he had left at his age. He was once, grateful that is. Especially just after the real storm. Willoughby had a long memory of those who didn’t make it, those who did then passed on as the years went by. Everyone. He was lonely now but for those recollections. He’d had his wife, but she left too early. And their kids, then the grandkids. He forgot how many. Didn’t that nurse, the big one, tell him that they had children of their own? It would make him a grandfather no, great grandfather. Now one went and had a baby. She was named Willoughby, nick-named Willow. “Isn’t that sweet?” the nurse had said. 
	Why bother with the Willoughby part, he asked himself, but she wasn’t his daughter. It wasn’t a girl’s name and, hell, she wasn’t even his granddaughter. Willow…he struggled with math again…she’s one-sixteenth me! He smiled that he had enough marbles to do the calculation. There was a picture of her somewhere in his room. Or maybe that was someone else.
	The rain stopped. Willoughby knew it would. Rain like that can’t last. He knew from experience. When he was a boy, hardly a man, they’d tramped along dirt roads and sloshed through mud like pigs in such downpours counting the steps until it ended. And then, hopefully, the sun would come and dry them out. Or maybe not and they’d spend the day shivering until they made camp falling asleep before they hit the ground. 
	The sun was just coming up, the grey clouds retreating south. It’ll be a fine day weatherwise, he thought. They won’t cancel the thing. Too bad for me. He took a deep breath resulting in a raspy cough and shuffled back to get dressed. 
	“Mr. Willoughby, can’t you wait for me?”
	It was her again. What was her name? Clara maybe. Or Sarah. Or Tara. She looked like a Tara; it was the red hair. “Figured I’d get the jump on things.”
	“Last time you got a jump on things,” she said with air quotes, “You broke your hip and claimed you were ready to go.”
	“I was ready, damn it!” What was I supposed to be ready for? He couldn’t remember. Maybe a big birthday.
	“Good,” said Tara helping Willoughby into the brown vinal Barcalounger. “And you need to get ready for today. You’re the Man of Honor.”
	Willoughby groused unintelligible words as the nurse helped him undress, how degrading, and removed his damp underwear. He ground his teeth. Then she went to the set of drawers that held his clothes and things, picking up a pad. “I don’t need a damn diaper woman!” She ignored him only to say. “It’s your big day. We don’t want to have an accident do we?”
	Willoughby grumbled. He was thinking he’d be perfectly content with an accident like having the Lincoln convertible they’d sit him in fall off a high cliff.
	The nurse, whose name was Lara, helped Willoughby into his best suit. It was his only suit and had been for these last 30 years. It once fit, too. Now it hung on him like a bag that could have fit another scrawny man. He pushed Lara’s hands away when she tried to tie his tie – “I can do that woman. I was doing this before your grandmother was born.” Lara brought out various medals hanging from colorful ribbons and pinned them to the suit. She blew a cloud of dust off the wide-brimmed hat, its blue wool faded into purple. It bore a tarnished wreath with the letters G.A.R. on its front.
	“Where’d you find that?” Willoughby asked. If Lara answered he didn’t hear or didn’t bother to listen. “Should have been buried years ago. Like me.”
	Lara nudged him gently. “Buried years ago! What an awful thought. What would I do without you?”
	“Change someone else’s diapers I suppose,” he said. Lara blushed at the remark. He didn’t mean it as a joke.
	“Well, let’s visit the bathroom, hmm? Get you a cup of coffee and something to eat. They baked your favorite. It’s a big day ahead. There will be reporters. they’ll want to speak with you.”
	Willoughby couldn’t remember what his ‘favorite’ was. Baked, she said. What do I like that’s baked? As he ran through the list of possible he realized he was hungry and decided he could do with a muffin, a corn muffin, with lots of butter and a dash of salt. His wife used to tease him about putting salt on a muffin. He sighed at the memory.
	“I could do with a corn muffin,” he said. Lara replied that of course they’d baked corn muffins for him this morning. “Those are your favorite,” she reminded him. He snorted. “Don’t you think I know that? I might have two that’s how hungry I am.”
	An aide brought up a pot of hot water and two muffins with butter patties on the side. “Your prayers are answered,” she said instructing the aid to put the goods on a tray where Willoughby sat struggling to tie his shoes. He looked up and asked where the coffee was. The aide wiggled a small jar from the tray. “Postum!” exclaimed Willoughby. “Get me some real coffee.”
	“Now Mister, the diet lady says you ain’t supposed to get coffee. This Postum tastes just like coffee. Better even,” said the aid.
	“Mud water,” said Willoughby. He kicked off an untied shoe which hit the aid in the leg then reconsidered his tactics. “Just a bit nervous. You know, the parade and all. But I could sure use a cup of real coffee. At my age, there aren’t many pleasures left.” He furrowed his eyebrows in an effort to look sad. It worked.
	“Just a small pot, Billy,” Lara said to the aid. “Sanka.” As she spoke Willoughby slathered the butter on the warm muffins. The melting butter slid onto his fingers which helped him pick up the crumbs before he devoured both. “And bring another muffin, son,” he said. “For later you know. And take one for yourself.”
	Sly. He was smiling inside. I’ve still got a few marbles to play with. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a lousy day. Nah, he thought, it would be lousy. His mind wandered. What’s it about marbles? He saw the boys in the parlor, flicking their thumbs into marbles. One would shout he’d won. The other shouted he’d cheated, and Willoughby would break up the ensuing wrestling match until both boys were on top of him claiming he had been pinned. 
	“Are you okay Mister Willoughby? You’re groaning.” She couldn’t make out the smile from his deep wrinkles.
	“I was somewhere else,” he said. “I’m fine. I was fine. Once.”
	A horn blew outside the home. Lara pulled aside the curtain and knocked on the window holding up a finger. “They’re early,” she said. “But you’re almost ready.” She waved off the reporter holding the boxy camera.  
 	Willoughby managed to stand up by himself which made him stand that much straighter. Lara was unlocking the wheels from a wooden wheelchair that stood in a dark corner of the room. Willoughby grabbed a cane that stood against a wall and shuffled to the chair which he slapped with its grip. “Now Mister Willoughby…” she started to say. “Your leg has been bothering you.”	 
	He slammed the cane against his leg, hard, the sound of wood against wood giving him satisfaction. The slap sent a sharp pain past what should have been his knee. He gritted his teeth, holding back a grimace. “I’ll walk to the car, dammit, I’m not a cripple.”
	 He’d walked these last eighty years, more, and done quite well thank you very much. He’d walked far longer on that fake leg than he had on the real one. People shook their heads when he told them the story. They wouldn’t amputate these days. And they couldn’t believe he’d been awake when they did it. Willoughby could laugh about that later. “We were real men,” he’d say. “Not like you ninnies.” But oh, how he begged for more of that vile laudanum even if it did make him vomit. He didn’t think the screams were his. He stuck with whiskey as he learned how to walk again, first on crutches, then with the wooden contraption.
 
The flashes went off with pops. The reporters urged him to smile but Willoughby just stared through his thick lenses. He was in the backseat of the car, nestled between a Boy Scout who was twiddling the sash of badges around his body, and a stiff soldier – sergeant from the stripes – who saluted just about everyone lining the parade route. Willoughby closed his eyes, tired just as they got underway, but the loud cheers of the crowd and the photographers with their volley of questions kept him awake. 
	“How you doin’ there Colonel?” said a smiling policeman leaning over the door of the convertible. Willoughby feared the man’s protruding belly would bust the door open. Willoughby looked, shielding his eyes with his hand. Colonel. Hah. I never was higher than a private. He was all set to grumble but decided to take advantage of the situation. “Wouldn’t mind a coffee if you could fetch me one.”
	The man in blue returned what he must have thought was a salute, said something to someone, and seconds later handed him a paper cup with a lid on it. “Here you go, Colonel,” said the beaming cop. “Two cups so you don’t burn your hand,” he added. This time Willoughby gave him a deliberate salute which the cop returned with a flourish for a cameraman who snapped a photo.
	Willoughby sipped, his shaky hand spilling some on his lap. I didn’t ask for cream and sugar. I just wanted a damn black coffee. Still, it was better than nothing even if the lukewarm brew didn’t warrant two cups. As he took a long sip, the Boy Scout held his hand out. “Sir, I’ll take that so you can wave to the crowd.” Willoughby glared at the boy through what he called his prescription ashtrays. “No, you won’t son. Not unless you’re working on a coffee brewing Merit Badge.” He still had it in him. The boy said they didn’t have such an award. “Well, they should.” The soldier on either side of Willoughby sat stock still, eyes ahead, as if at attention before the President or someone. Jackass thought Willoughby. 
	Willoughby didn’t wave to the crowd; he glowered. He thought about coffee. He thought such a Merit Badge was a good idea. His regiment, hell the whole Army, survived on coffee. This Scout, maybe he was seventeen, probably didn’t drink the stuff. Willoughby was barely seventeen when he’d enlisted and wouldn’t have made it without that coffee so thick you could stand a spoon in it, so strong they joked it would melt the bottom through of the thin metal cups. They were so young back then, young and old. 
	The Scout took Willoughby’s reluctant hand and waved to the throngs. The unsmiling soldier continued to stare ahead. Alongside the car, sweating but smiling walked the cop at a faster pace than he was used to, his hand holding the car as if trying to slow its already glacial pace down.  
	To the policeman’s relief, the car came to a halt in front of a grandstand, covered with red, white, and blue bunting, and loaded with people roaring cheers at Willoughby. He was helped out of the car, more carried than helped, by the Scout and sergeant, and ushered to the grandstand. The stiff sergeant warmed up. “This is for you, old soldier. God bless.” Willoughby looked at the banner over the stand, letters so large he could actually read them. He had to snort. To no one, to everyone, and especially to his long-lost friends, he said, “There was nothing civil about it.”
 
The banner read, “In Honor Thomas Willoughby. The Last Veteran of Our Civil War.”
 
 
 
","August 17, 2023 20:45",[]
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,79og7c,Tribute,Pat O'Brien,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/79og7c/,/short-story/79og7c/,Fiction,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Friendship']",7 likes,"
In the hour before dawn, we slip out in the darkness, gliding over the deep black Atlantic.  The only sound is the chug of the engine. The boat noses east, where the sky pales to grey, and then magenta, until a crescent of rising sun casts golden rays upon the rolling water.  As the sun moves higher, the water and the sky merge into the brilliant piercing blue of impending autumn.
 
For more than seventy summers, we have bobbed and rolled in this old boat. In these later years, in the winter, he'd haul her out of the brine for the last time, her old ribs giving up the ghost to the cry of gulls. But, each spring, his second thoughts would wake her from her rusty slumber with a scrubbing and a coat of paint, for one more season of sun and water.  Come autumn, the paint was cracked and peeling again, and his old ribs sighed and strained along with hers, against the tides, and back to the dock.
 
They were tied together, he and the boat.  Built for him by his father when he was just a boy, she gave him his life on the water.  Together, he and the boat would set the traps, laying them out in long lines dotted with painted floats.  Later, the boat would move patiently forward, or bob alongside his lines, while he pulled the traps back over the stern, and emptied them onto her deck.  
 
The island was always his home, along with a few other fishermen and their families. Six miles off the mainland made for self-sufficiency. Desolate winters and howling gales left the islanders snug in their cottages, interdependent until the business of fishing resumed. Even after ferry service began, trips to the mainland were few and far between. On a day that was no good for fishing, he would ferry his own boat back and forth to the mainland, shopping for things the island and the boat could not provide.
 
I was a later addition.  I was a summer resident on the island, and I was ten years old.  I remember that he was tall for his sixteen years, with black curly hair and eyes as wild and blue as the North Atlantic.  I followed after him like a duckling, in my Keds sneakers and my blue crew hat, begging him to take me on the boat. Ecstatic the first time he let me come along, I worked the lines until my hands were raw. On the second day he brought me gloves, well worn and too big, but very welcome.  He didn’t speak much, but he kindly showed me the work:  baiting the pots, dropping them over the stern, keeping the lines untangled, and, the hardest of all, pegging the claws. 
 
Each summer after that, it was he, and me, and the boat; the three of us, pulling and hauling, measuring the lobsters for the legal limit, pegging the claws, and bringing the catch back to the raft in the harbor.  There, we'd empty them into the holding pots attached to either side of the raft, moor the boat, and punt our way back to shore.  On market day he would haul out the pots full of clicking lobsters and ferry them to the docks on the mainland for sale. 
 
Somewhere along the way, we began to communicate without speaking, keeping a hand for the boat and a hand for the work, in the silence of understanding.  Day after day, rain or shine, we and the boat, together.
We summered through hot sun and easy winds, through thunderstorms and gales, through both our marriages, through weddings and births and funerals. The only interruption was his military service, and his tours of duty in Vietnam. He came home one summer, wounded and broken of spirit, and he reached for the boat before anything else. She welcomed him with grace and eased him back into a kinder, gentler world. 
 
Years gone by, he still sets his day by the tides.  He is one of only a few now, and he has grown older and leaner.  His black hair has turned to a wiry gray, his face is leathery and lined.  The gear is gone, sold off or given away.  There are no pots, no lines, no floats.  I watch him guide us over the water he knows and loves, his hand on the wheel, his senses tuned to the heave of the swells, the will of the wind, and the engine, as faithful as a lover's heart. 
 
This is our last ride for this summer, and soon the boat will be hauled up for winter.  She may not return to the sea next summer, but he says that when fishermen can't go to sea, they repair nets.  Whether or not he sails, the sea will live in him forever.  His 83 years have been full and simple. A life on the water and lobstering on the boat have left him steely and impervious on the outside, and as gentle as a summer breeze on the inside. His simple strength has dimmed a little, replaced by a flow of memories, and a steady stream of satisfactions and regrets. He has outlived his wife and one of his children, and has passed through grief and into the awareness of the circle of life. There is a serenity that embraces him now, an understanding of life that goes beyond words.
 
The life of a fisherman has changed. Gone are the days when he would bring his catch to the mainland docks, and barter a fair price. Gone are the simple boats and the unending days of sun and sea. All have been replaced by a newer, more streamlined method. Sleeker boats, faster engines, and a crew have emerged from the necessities of commerce.
The art of fishing, much older than he, has disappeared, leaving only the vestige of old boats and old knowledge.
 
He opens the throttle once more, and the old boat meets the challenge.  Hair blowing and raggedy sweater flapping, he turns to me with a wide smile, and his eyes are still as wild and blue as the North Atlantic.
","August 12, 2023 18:38","[[{'Anna W': 'The descriptions of the characters and the scenery is quite beautiful! The captivating detail kept me reading! \n\nFor the critique circle:  \n\nIt was lovely to see this fisherman\'s life change from simple, to broken, back to beautiful, though more complicated by life, This was a breezy, enjoyable read. \n\nI think your description of his eyes being ""wild and blue as the North Atlantic"" was a great picture of how the sea is part of who he is. \n\nLoved this story, Pat.', 'time': '18:31 Aug 26, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Ela Mikh': 'This is so heartfelt! I loved this quote ""The art of fishing, much older than he, has disappeared, leaving only the vestige of old boats and old knowledge""\n\nThank you for sharing', 'time': '22:40 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,6yccb7,Shirley's Re-Re-Reawakening,Paris Rome,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/6yccb7/,/short-story/6yccb7/,Fiction,0,"['Suspense', 'Funny', 'Happy']",7 likes,"
	Shirley pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, “Now you kids don’t get hurt now!” She’d watch her grandchildren run off into the park. She would open her hardcover version of Red, White, And Royal Blue, plopping onto the wooden bench. “Banana…” The toddler next to her would mumble. “Yes sweetie-pie?” She’d say in a baby-voice, playing with his hands slightly. The baby would go to bite at her hand softly, then drooling on his stroller. “Oh you are so sweet Micah!” “Banana…” Shirley would lean in, then feeling a light tap on her shoulder. “Mee maw, Colin fell off them swings over there!” Her granddaughter would look over, pointing. 
 
	“Colin, are you okay sweetie?” Shirley would speed walk over, as that was her fastest walk. “Mee maw!” He would yell, holding his openly wounded knee. “Mee maw I’m gonna die! Help me!” Colin would whine, sobbing uncontrollably. “Come on sweetie, you won’t die. I’ll give you Mee maw’s special health kisses okay? I just have to make sure I won’t get sick while I do it.” She’d pull out sanitary wipes, ripping the packet open and cleaning his knee. “MEE MAW THAT HURTS!” Colin would wail, swaying around trying to escape. “Calm down sweetie, not anymore.” Shirley would put a band-aid on his knee, kissing it lightly. “There sweetie, now let’s go home.” “But I still have to do the monkey bars.”
 
	Shirley would sigh, getting up and grabbing Colin’s hand, “I’ll get you a popsicle if you come home!” “Okay Meemaw!” Colin would smile happily, walking as if he didn’t skin his knee. “I want a cherry one!” He would swing his arms, skipping. “Well, you have that TRASH flavor. I’m gonna have grape!” The eight year-old girl exclaimed, walking proudly. “Jolene, nobody likes grape besides you. You pretend to like it so you’re different.” The boy spit back, putting his hands on his hips, not noticing the man standing behind him. “Kids, run!” Shirley gave the stroller to Jolene, running up to the man behind Colin.
 
	“You leave my grandson alone!” She’d take her purse, hitting him across the face. “Woah, grandma got hands!” The masked man yelped, moving his head out of the way for the next hit. “And legs!” She’d kick him where it hurts, watching him collapse. “Now leave us alone!” She’d turn back to her grandchildren. “Woah, Mee Maw has superpowers! Purse Woman!” The children would exclaim, amazed by Shirley. “I guess over a decade of karate pays off!” Shirley smiled, grabbing the stroller. “Don’t let me forget to write a police report!”  “What’s a decade?” Colin looked puzzled. “You idiot- it’s five years!” Colin and Jolene bickered over and over, about to burst into crying. “You meanie!” Colin teared up, wiping his eyes. “It’s just the facts!” She’d run into the house as they walked up to the driveway. 
 
	Shirley would start to set Micah to sleep, then hearing a yell from the living room. “Mee maw- is this you?” Jolene would hold up a picture frame, showing a teenage girl and young Elvis Presley. Shirley would imp up behind her grand daughter, “Well yes sweetie! I thought I told you about me becoming friends with Elvis?” “No! Well…you might have. I don’t always pay attention to your stories…” Jolene would avert her eyes, setting the frame back down. 
 
 
	Shirley laughed, “Well sweetie, you can learn some pretty bizarre things if you listen to my stories!” Jolene perked up, “Have you gone to the moon?” “Not exactly, but I was in person for the moon landing! That was fun, I met a lot of nice men–and hot men too!” Shirley laughed, patting Jolene’s head. 
 
	“Wait, did you do anything with cartoons?” Colin popped up from his chair, popsicle juice all around his mouth. Jolene scoffed, “Mee Maw probably didn’t, that’s only for celebrities!” “Well, I actually almost voiced Ms.Puff, but I was beaten by another woman.” Shirley put her hands on her waist. “Whoa! Told you so!” Colin hopped out of the chair, throwing his hands up. “I don’t believe it, Mee Maw! Isn’t the actual woman like thirty?” Jolene crossed her arms, pouting. Shirley pulled out her phone, looking up the voice actress. “Actually, she is eighty-four! One year fresher than me!” “Fresher?” Jolene grimaced. “I’m not gonna ask.” 
 
 
 
	“Mee maw, have you been to space?” Colin ran over, nearly falling. “Careful now! I almost did, but I was pregnant with your mother. I did do several studies though! I found out that there are two hundred billion galaxies!” Shirley smiled brightly as she wiped cherry flavoring off of his face. “Two hundred what whats?” Colin tilted his head puzzled. “What’s an autopsy?” “No Colin, it’s a dictionary.” Jolene ‘corrected’ him. “No, it’s a correctary!” Colin balled his hands into fists. “No, it’s an obituary!” Jolene leapt at him, ready to fight. “Settle down kids! A galaxy is a system of BILLIONS of stars, held together by gravity.” Shirley grabbed Jolene’s shirt, holding her back. “I’m going to take a nap. Math is boring.” Colin yawned, stumbling to his room. 
 
	“So, Baby Jojo, what do you want to do?” Shirley let go of her shirt, fixing Jolene’s hair. “I want to fight Colin! I will pick him up and throw him and-” “Whoa, you can take less time than that sweetheart. Do I really have to teach you some things?” Shirley smirked, looking down at her. “Wait! Did you have to write that police report or something?” Jolene contemplated, then popping up with her hand. “Right, thanks!” Shirley stumbled to her phone, filing the report.
 
	“Back Jojo!” Shirley adjusted her glasses, patting Jolene’s back. A loud ding would be heard at the door, “One minute again dear!” She rushed to the door, answering it. “Hello! What do you need?” Shirley smiled. “Hello, I was sent here because of a recently filed police report, is this Shirley Stempel?” A man in a suit spoke in a calm, yet stern voice. “Yes dear! Come right on in!” 
 
	“So,” The man would take a seat at the dining table, opening his sketchbook. “What face shape did this man have? Square, heart, maybe oval-shaped?” “Slightly oval, just like yours!” “Mhm, what type of eyes did he have? If you could tell me the color, that would be amazing.” The man started to sketch a face. “I think they were green or hazel, and they were almond shaped. His face was ironically similar to yours young man!” Shirley smiled, laughing slightly. “Were you able to see his hair? Or was it covered by a hat or a hood?” “It was covered by a hood. Sorry if that was important.” “So, what ethnicity was the man?” The sketch-artist moved closer to Shirley. “He was a caucasian male! Just like you!” Shirley paused, connecting the dots. The man would slam his notebook shut. Shirley covered her mouth concerningly, “Wait…” 
 
","August 17, 2023 23:58","[[{'Marty B': 'I kept waiting for the purpose for the future subjunctive tense to come up, \nwhat happened if she didnt do all those things?\n\nQuite a Grandma though!', 'time': '23:05 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,ibg1e4,                                 That One With the Hair…,Angel Hadjipopgeorgiev,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ibg1e4/,/short-story/ibg1e4/,Fiction,0,"['Drama', 'Fantasy', 'Fiction']",7 likes,"
 
                 That One With the Hair…
 
 The room is bright and astonishingly large compared to the solitary bed where my withered body lies. It has nothing in common with the previous one, which had sheltered various sufferers of different ages, competing successfully in the quantity of diseases. My son, with some hesitation, sold my unnecessary house to provide me with this equally unnecessary comfort, but his filial duty and the upbringing I had instilled in him had their say. Now I am alone, like a seashell on the bottom of the ocean, left to the ocean currents and the whims of Fate. A medical nurse comes a few times to administer the necessary medications on schedule, and an annoyed orderly enters once to change my diaper and dust off the windowsills. I feel like a cactus that doesn't even become beautiful, abandoned in the corner of a white, sterile desert. There's no expectation of returning to physical health, not even as a dream. In one word, the only way to describe the dream is ""memory,"" whether pleasant or unpleasant. There's no middle ground. I lie in the standard position, ""supine,"" with the feeling that the entire chronological dimension is at my disposal while the Earth rotates around its axis at 465 meters per second. Yes, time is mine, which is something, though I possess nothing else. Not that I need anything. Perhaps the orderly might have smiled a little in her permanent hatred for the world. But when looked at in pure reality, a smile probably wouldn't have changed anything in my existence, which, as I mentioned earlier, consists solely of memories. Identical, persistent, and sweet to the point of nausea, tediously resembling one another, regardless of when they visualize themselves in the tranquility of consciousness.
 Here she comes again - ""That One With the Hair."" Her hair, long down to her waist, chestnut-wavy, soft as baby's palms, caressing like a summer breeze in the evening. It's as if I can feel them on my wrinkled face, and my skin tingles with the desire to go back through the years to a single night. The first unforgettable night. In the past, illusions shattered like a fire whirlwind, leaving behind the defiled bed of that first wedding night. In my thoughts, it became a symbol of lost innocence, transformed as if by magic into the dark soul of vice. That place, meant to be filled with anticipation and love, was now lonely and cold, much like my heart - a forgotten glacier, its treasures frozen, their brilliance lost in a doomed wait. My libidinal fantasies, like a blazing inferno, created a satirical spectacle in a twisted frivolity, where the only participants were myself and my inner demons. These hidden desires and anxieties slithered silently behind the scenes, entering into dark, perverse roles, engaging in mad dances filled with gentle, deceptive promises. Like sinister actors, they whispered from the boundless chaos that engulfed my consciousness, and along with me, they forgot reality, stepping onto the stage of the illusory Fata Morgana.
 I watched them from the sidelines as a mad director, directing an unknown script. A solo spectator amid the vast view of my own depressive soul theater. Masked faces entangled themselves in indiscriminate, chaotic games, acting like puppet-trembling marionettes, performing their lustful roles.
 The action in this unstable spectacle never ceased. The stage of my irritable thoughts was filled with the aerial tricks of passion, stomping and swirling with relentless persistence. My mind was tired, and my soul was pressed by the thin thread of the internal struggle between reason and chaos.
 The dark theater was a chasm where sensuality and temptation were despised, colliding with conflicting, utterly meaningless motives. The podium was filled with endless dramas of lust, shooting off like fiery whirlwinds into the abyss of my existence. And so, in the moment of this spectacle in my internal nightmares, filled with comical and cruel episodes, my heart roared like the trumpet of an angry god against the tearing currents of emotions. I was a slave to my own feelings, observing the unwanted scenes, and weariness poured out like black smoke from the imaginary cauldron of an unrealized, shattered dream.
 Amidst these profound reflections, I impatiently awaited ""That One With the Hair,"" who resembled my sweetest chimeric reveries. She always appeared as an angelic ghost, brimming with tenderness and an indefinable presence. In her moments, the whole storm of internal battles and doubts fell silent. Time stood still, leaving only her and me in this world of infinity and silence. The grotesque of the twisted theater dissolved like a phantom fog, ready to escape back to the underworld from which it had sprung. To leave only me and her. To let me experience again and again the entire sweet agony of a love's magic that happened only once for all eternity.
 Fragile and graceful, ""That One With the Hair"" was my salvation from the wild wasteland of mundane, boring existence. In her hands, every feeling of mine transformed into a work of art, and my spirit rose to the vastness of divine sentiments. Infinity, knowing no boundaries or limitations, where everything becomes possible, beautiful, and ecstatic.
 That One With the Hair…
 Ah, what nuances sparkled in those luxurious curls, cascading down her bare back. As if Ali Baba's treasure had woven itself into them, illuminating the darkness with the rainbow of a thousand protuberances. I caressed them with the fervor of a doomed man, even though I wasn't aware of my future fate. With every blink of her eyes, filled with constellations of tenderness, I forgot my doubts and fears. As if I were detaching from the earth and being carried away in the gentle currents of mutual affection and transcendent love.
 Until I realized that she had only been a charming, fleeting moment. The moment Faust had recognized and captured with a single gesture. Only where I didn't, for which I will always regret in the bitterness of my past inexperience. Who knows that, right? Of course, I read that ""Faust"" by Goethe. Even a few times, but what does it matter? Happiness is realized in the present moment, and it's so brief that perhaps only Faust from the poem managed to react appropriately. The rest of us are   left with open eyes and outstretched arms toward what has already departed forever.
 That One With the Hair...
 After her, a mega-dramatic battle began within my devastated essence. The time between my helplessness and the hope of tomorrow wove itself as a journey through the wild wasteland, where death and birth border each other. And in this window to the unknown, the storm within me raged like a fiery vortex, carrying me to unreachable spheres composed of faith and disbelief, of reason and madness. There, I collided once again with my demons, leaping out of corners like terrifying shadows, bathed in mystery and gray silence.
 In the midst of the wild wasteland of my thoughts and feelings, I sought enlightenment under the dark clouds of doubt. Questions trampled my heart like the powerful footsteps of a giant brontosaurus, leading me back to my forgotten, ancient roots. Entangled in the endless jungle of contradictions, I couldn't find the lost path to the light of reason. The immeasurable time flowed into palpable moments, and I continued to be a palette of doubts and consuming disharmony. The strange fiesta persisted tirelessly, and I wasn't just an innocent witness; I was in love with the magic of my internal labyrinthine pilgrimage. Until the body refused to travel.
 Forever...
 And now, when ""That One With the Hair"" visits me, whether by invitation or not, a question passes through my mind:
""When will 'That One With the Hair“ be replaced by „That One With thethe deadly one Hair?""
 
                                               Angel Hadjipopgeorgiev
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
","August 13, 2023 18:45","[[{'Shirley Heinz': 'Critique: I think the story is quite relevant and true.  My main suggestion would to be cut down on the analogies.  Very poetic, but I started to get lost in the various comparisons. Your images are great...the seashell on the bottom of the ocean, for example.', 'time': '23:16 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,xtdgq8,Isabella’s grandmother,Lie Moreira,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/xtdgq8/,/short-story/xtdgq8/,Fiction,0,"['Fantasy', 'Fiction', 'Funny']",7 likes,"
“Mama wrote me, dear!” Isabella’s mother, a not-so-young woman anymore, celebrated as a young child. “She is coming to visit us!” She continued yelling from the kitchen.“What?!” The old alchemist exclaimed in disbelief and biting his teeth. He made a very discontent face although was able to hide it from Isabella’s mother.“I thought you liked her and missed her.” The young man, son of a friend of a friend, replied in a lower voice.“Yeah, I do.” Isabella’s father answered in a lower voice too. “And I do like her better when she is far away, very far away.” He sighed heavily and gesticulated with his hand as if trying to send the old woman away before she arrive. “We can say” He continued “I like her letters. Full of histories from all around where she goes. True or not it is always very entertaining.”“What did you say, Dear?” Isabella’s mother asked from the kitchen where she was finishing to hit the soup.“That is great news, my love!” He yelled. “When did she arrive?” He asked contracting his teeth again and, saying in a very low voice. “I need to prepare myself emotionally.”“You know mom…” She entered the living room smiling and carrying the soup that smelled great. “Anytime. It might even be tonight. Those letters took so long sometimes…”“That is the problem here; maybe all of us should move to the future with Isabella where the letters came faster.” He said lowly when Isabella’s mother was back in the kitchen.Isabella entered the living room laughing and saying.“It is good to be home again.”“Be welcome, dear, did you wash your hands?” Her father asked.“Yes, Father. I’ve been surviving well by myself traveling the whole world all around time and I have already 27 years old. Washing hands is the basics.”“Since when?” He said. “You know here in Alexandria it is not so common yet.”“Well, that is because now is still a couple of centuries after Christ was born… I don’t know when exactly people begin to worry about washing hands…”“Anyway, it is good to know that in the future people will be cleaner.”“I’m so happy you are here, my dear.” Isabella’s mother said with her eyes emotionally melted in tears.“Me too, Mom.”“Since your father gave you that time-traveling necklace…”“Oh, not again, please.” The father said. “Let’s not start that discussion again. It has been more than six years now!”“Yeah! Exactly! MORE than six years that I go to bed without knowing where, when or how my baby is! She can be dead like in 2020, and we will never know!”“But she is happy! Can’t you admit that?” He said louder and louder. “And we all will be dead in 2020.” He groused.Isabella laughed again. Her parents could never agree about her 21 years old birthday gift. A time-traveling necklace her father made especially for her. The kind of gift only an alchemist's father is able to do for you and she loved that.Trying to change the subject and to gain Isabella’s trust, the young alchemist, son of a friend of a friend, said:“And how it is, Isabella? To be able to travel the whole world and in time like that.”“What is this new acquisition in the family, again? Can someone explain it to me better? Couldn’t we have a dog instead?”“We already have a dog. A couple of ones, dear.” The father said.“One more?”“All right, I explain.” Her mother said. “He is a friend of a friend of mine, and he is here to learn with your father. He is a young alchemist too, as his father. But he wanted to learn a few things with your father.”“Father never had any students, not even me…” She looked with suspicion at the man at the table with them.“That is not true, I will explain…” Isabella’s father was about to say when the doorbell ranged.“Are we expecting someone?” Isabella asked.“Your grandmother!”. Isabella’s mother shouted jumping off the chair and going to open the front door.“Wauhhh! Already?” Isabella’s father screamed losing his voice to a high tone.The young alchemist tried to hide his smile.“Mama!!!”Everyone looked really happy on that warm evening with the arrival of the old lady, Isabella’s grandmother. Everyone was happy in that dining room enchanted by the light of the flames from the fireplace. Except for Gordon, Isabella’s father, of course, who was a little cranky. He kept hearing in his mind the first words that the old woman said to him that night ‘You look older than before!’. Of course, he thought, it has been almost over a decade. She could just wait another decade before came and he might be lucky enough to be already dead.After the initial compliments, they all sit around the table to have dinner, as they was about to do before the ringing of the doorbell.“Isabella has just arrived too, Mom.”“I know” She answered to her daughter smiling while arranging Isabella’s pink strands in her hair. “I knew it would look great at you, lovely dear.”Isabella’s grandmother always called her like that, ‘lovely dear’.“She always knows everything.” Her father whispered to himself.Yes, that is Isabella’s grandmother. She seems to always know everything. Then the old woman stared at the young man in the diner room, looking at him directly in his eyes.He felt uncomfortable. Usually, he was very confident, although the old woman's gaze made him tremble inside. He gasped.“And about you?” She finally said.“I am the son of…” He was about to introduce himself.“I know.”“Be careful, my dear mother-in-law, he is new here and he doesn’t know…” Isabella’s father was trying to protect the young alchemist.“I know.” The old woman interrupted. “You don’t need to protect him. He will do good by himself.”“Yes, but he doesn’t know about you and…”“Don’t you worry” She interrupted him again making a no balancing of her pointer finger.‘Old bastard’ Gordon thought, but silenced even his thoughts when Isabella’s grandmother looked at him with a mad face. ‘I’m sorry’ was his last thought that night.“What I suppose to do with you, young boy?” She finally asked him something, breaking the scare staring with an even more scary thing.He stammered “Well, technically I am not a young boy, anymore, I’m more than 30 already and…”“I know.” The old woman said. “I am 83 years old and I have been 83 years old for three centuries now. I think you are a young boy for me.”“He is suspicious, isn’t he, Grandma?”“Of course he is.” The old woman affirmed severely.“I am still in the living room.” He said trying to recover some dignity and, trying to recover some confidence: “And why do you need ‘to do’ anything about me?” He gazed at her strongly.“You are going to give me worries!” The old lady said.“Don’t you start, Grandma, please?” That was Gordon. When he wants to melt her, he just calls her Grandma. Like if he was saying: Isabella’s grandma, please… Most of the time, that works pretty well.“What, Gordon?”“He is not used to that, don’t you do that, please. He is just beginning his life.”“And he needs to begin it well!”The young alchemist became worried. Since both Isabella’s parents were alchemists, what could the old woman, Isabella’s grandmother, be or do? Curse him terribly with something really bad? Transform him into a frog? The possibilities were endless in his imagination at that moment.“You are stronger than I thought.” She paused. “That is a good or a terrible thing, I don’t know yet.”“Oh… you are actually doing it… okay, I say nothing anymore.”Isabella’s grandmother tells the future. Does she predict it or does she create it? We wonder… She is a rare kind of alchemist. An alchemist of the words, like Isabella is, but this is not about young Isabella. By the way, Isabella’s grandmother also is called Isabella. She named her granddaughter after her with a blessing by the fire on the beach on the day little Isabella was born. Her entire life she was called to bless the newborns. To give them nice and warm futures. Futures where they could be happy and make others happy too.The old lady faced again the young man that trembled again even though he was sitting at the table.“You are going to be either the beginning of it all or either be the ending of it all. You are going either to build an entirely new world or either destroy it completely.”The young one gasped not knowing what he was supposed to think or fell about that. “What is that?” Gordon asked. “You said so much and nothing at the same time. You never said anything so vaguely like that.” The son-in-law was concerned, had the old woman gone senile now? It would be his worst nightmare, to have to deal with this crazy old woman in the craziest mode.“I can’t tell about him.” She answered calmly. “He was born under the moon of the ambiguous archetype. We can never know about the ambiguous ones until very close to the end…” She said with concern in her voice.Everyone went in shock and were in silence. That had never happened before. That Isabella’s mother to be unable to predict any future at all.Then Isabella’s mother, Rose, asked;“And that is all that you can know about his future?”“Ohh, no.” The grandma answered. “That is what I can deduce from the gossip I heard on my way here… about his family”“What the old woman doesn’t know by seeing the future, she knows by gossip. Always like that.” Gordon said to himself.“Better than you that never knows anything about anything anyway…” The old mother-in-law answered with an acid smile.Then she looked at the young alchemist again.“Either way, you will be part of it. You will be important, and it lies completely in your hands the choices of your future and the future of many others too…”The young alchemist felt nervous, but he was not sure why.Then the old woman smiled and said reliving the tension in the air.“I will trust you for now, young boy.” She stirred the soup on her plate. “Continue to eat, everyone!” she said looking around the table, because everyone had stopped eating. “The soup is great and it is better to eat it warm than cold.”“And we will meet again, young boy.” She smiled to him. “I will help you in the future.” She took a spoonful of the soup.“Or else I will destroy you.” And she gave a nice, warm, cozy smile.
","August 18, 2023 14:06",[]
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,hal6kt,A Little Bit Safer,David Bush,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/hal6kt/,/short-story/hal6kt/,Fiction,0,['Thriller'],7 likes,"
*Content warning- some violence *		
 
Blamm! Blamm!
 
	Two consecutive shots rang out in the alley. Each was eclipsed by the sounds of the city—jackhammers, commuter buses, and the nearby L train atop Franklin Street. The killer gazed down with contempt at his victims, a pair of vagrants.
 
	“Good riddance,” he sneered.
 
	Still breathing, one of the derelicts moaned and reached out toward his assailant as if seeking a lifeline.
 
 Blamm!
 
	The third shot erupted from the barrel of the .38 and blood spattered against the dumpster behind the now lifeless corpses. This wasn’t the first time the killer had taken a life, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Transients, druggies, and the elderly were burdens on society, and there were plenty of each to be found in a city the size of Chicago.
 
 The fewer, the better, he thought.
 
	The killer tucked away the revolver and walked casually out of the alley and onto a busy sidewalk—a nondescript stranger in a city replete with nondescript strangers.
 
	###
 
 Two Shot and Killed in River North District 
 
	“Oh, my Lord! What is this city coming to?” Judith Burton asked herself as she sat at the breakfast table and stared at the front-page headline of the morning’s Sun-Times.
 
	Judith quickly read the accompanying article, focusing on the salient details: The victims were both male, carried no identification, and appeared to be homeless. Their bodies had been discovered near a dumpster in an alley on West Ontario Street. There appeared to be no motive for the homicides.
 
	Hoping to find brighter news, Judith sighed and turned to the style section of the newspaper. Prior to retiring, Judith had been a highly successful commercial interior designer. Although she no longer worked, Judith still dressed the part and enjoyed keeping her pulse on current fashion trends. 
 
	She slowly finished her breakfast–a salmon lox scramble with over-easy eggs. One of the advantages of residing at an upscale retirement home like Evergreen was the food. The chefs were excellent cooks. She’d lived at Evergreen for nearly ten years. The success she’d found throughout her career had enabled Judith to retire in one of the best homes in Chicago. Evergreen offered a lively event schedule, daily activities, and a shuttle bus that ran throughout the day, transporting the home’s residents here and there.
 
	Judith’s nest egg had enabled her to buy a motorized wheelchair in which she routinely jetted around. She liked to think of it as her retirement Tesla. She could get by without it, of course, but utilizing the wheelchair for travel throughout the home enabled Judith to preserve her energy for more exciting activities.
 
	She backed away from the breakfast table and her wheelchair issued a series of warning beeps. Judith motored out of the dining area toward her first-floor apartment. As she reached the hallway, she saw a staff member working to tack down a section of carpeting that had become dislodged from the floor. Wheelchairs are hell on carpets, she thought.
 
	“Thanks for your hard work, young man,” she said, as she motored by.
 
	“My pleasure, Ms. Burton. Just keeping everyone a little bit safer.” He issued a friendly wink, which Judith promptly returned. Judith’s style always brought out the flirters, even those half her age.
 
	Back in her room, she switched on the widescreen TV and turned to a channel featuring wheelchair yoga. Judith performed various upper- and lower-body exercises for several minutes and then placed a squeeze-ball hand exerciser in each palm.
 
 Keeping that arthritis at bay, she thought, as she counted off fifty repetitions.
 
	###
 
	That afternoon, Judith headed out to the common area for tea and socialization. She passed Mary Jean’s room and paused. MJ had gone out last week for lunch and had not been seen since. Judith had a bad feeling about MJ’s disappearance and said a quick prayer.
 
	As she reached the common area she saw Dorothy, a friend and former socialite. Judith crossed the room and parked her wheelchair next to Dorothy who listlessly stared out the large bay window toward the community garden and pond. 
 
	“Did you hear the news?” Dorothy asked, her voice quaking. “They found MJ.”
 
	“Oh no,“ Judith replied. “What happened?”
 
	Dorothy blew her nose into a tissue and took in a few quick, sobbing breaths. “They found her body dumped behind the Hyatt on Stetson Avenue. She had taken the shuttle there for lunch and shopping but hadn’t shown up at the pickup time. The police said she’d been shot twice.”
 
	“Oh dear,” Judith replied. “Poor MJ. I can’t believe what this world has come to when kind, old, defenseless women like her are murdered.”
 
	Judith and Dorothy held hands for several moments and reminisced about MJ. After a few minutes, Dorothy pulled herself together a bit. Judith motored toward the front office.
 
 
	“Be a dear,” she told the receptionist, “and let me have a look at the duty roster. I’d love to see who prepared today’s wonderful breakfast.”
 
	The receptionist handed Judith the duty roster. Judith flipped back through the roster for the last few weeks and took several photos with her iPhone.
 
	“Thanks so much. Now I can plan my meals better,” she laughed.
 
	The receptionist smiled at Judith. Judith returned the smile and motored back to her room.
 
	She texted the photos and a brief note to her nephew, John, who worked as a detective in Denver. The two had always been close. From time to time, John helped his aunt whenever she needed assistance adapting to new technologies—the iPhone had taken a few hours—or with research. John was adept at research and had come through for Judith many times in the past.
 
	John returned Judith’s text a few hours later with the information she needed. She texted her thanks, and then used the Evergreen’s shuttle app to set up round-trip transportation for lunch and shopping the next day.
 
	###
 
	The following morning, Judith dressed in a black chiffon A-line dress and black pumps. Her hair, sonic silver with a thin jet-black streak, flowed softly across her shoulders. At 11:30 A.M., the shuttle bus dropped her off in front of the Sheraton on East North Water Street overlooking the Chicago River. Its restaurant, Four Points, was a popular gathering place among older crowds. Its decor was old-style luxurious, and the menu featured a variety of comfort foods, each with a modern twist. The restaurant had the added benefit of a young hipster crowd that flowed through as they checked in and out of the hotel, adding a bit of people watching to the menu. Although the Evergreen provided sumptuous food, eating at Four Points was always a treat.
 
	Judith had just finished consuming her lunch, which consisted of slow-roasted rotisserie free-range chicken breasts, French green beans, and mashed potatoes with country gravy. She couldn’t finish the entire meal, of course, but had made a good dent. While she didn’t particularly like the taste of green beans, she found them palatable largely due to their overabundance of butter. A good soldier, she ate them for the fiber. Being regular when you’re my age is a blessing, she thought to herself.
 
	She flagged down her waiter.
 
	“That was very good, Miles. Can you close the bill out on my card?” 
 
	 “Of course, Ms. Burton. Always a pleasure to see you,” Miles said, smiling. He took Judith’s credit card and processed the check, then brought the receipt over for her signature. She added a healthy tip and handed Miles the receipt.
 
	“Don’t you go finding another waiter,” Miles said with mock horror. Judith was always pleasant to Miles and tipped well. “Do you need a hand with your chair?”
 
	“Oh no, Dear,” she replied. “It still has a good charge. Besides, taking it for spin helps me in preparing for the NASCAR circuit.” She winked at him.
 
	Chuckling, Miles winked back, said farewell, and headed over to attend to another table.
 
	As Judith motored out of the restaurant, a busboy called out to her.
 
	“Hey, Ms. Burton?” he said, approaching Judith.
	Judith looked up and recognized the busboy as one of the orderlies from Evergreen.
 
	“Oh, hello Stephen. I didn’t know you worked here, too.”
 
	“Just a little extra money. They’re easy with me on the hours,” Stephen said. “Did you enjoy your lunch?”
 
	“Oh yes. Wonderful as always. It’s so refreshing to get out and see different places every once in a while.”
 
	Stephen chuckled and smiled. “Actually, there’s a fantastic view of the city from roof deck. Would you like to drink it in? I can take my break now.”
 
	“That would be wonderful, Stephen,” Judith said, smiling. “So nice of you to take the time.”
 
	“It’s no trouble at all, Mrs. Burton. I’ll be right back.”
 
	Stephen pushed his cart into the restaurant kitchen and soon returned. He led Judith over to the elevator bank and pressed the “up” button.
 
	“It’s a clear day,” Stephen remarked. “I’ve heard that on a clear day you can see as far west as Des Moines.”
 
	The elevator doors opened, and Stephen graciously let Judith motor in first. He followed Judith into the cabin and the doors slid shut. Stephen used a keycard to enable access to the rooftop. An electric hum filled the cabin as their ascent began.
 
	“Oh man!” Stephen suddenly blurted out. “I gotta stop at payroll and get last week’s check. Is it okay if we take brief a detour?”
 
	“Of course,” Judith replied. “I’ve got nowhere pressing to be, and an hour ‘til the bus comes around.”
 
	Stephen quickly scanned his access card and pressed the 3rd floor button marked “Employees Only.” The elevator ceased its upward progress and the doors slid open.
 
	“It’s just down the hall, Ms. Burton,” Stephen said, as he led the way. Unlike the hotel’s guest floors, the employee floor hallway was dim and worn down. 
 
	“Definitely not a floor for the discriminating traveler,” Judith said with a laugh.
 
	“You got that right. This floor seriously lacks the wow factor, but it isn’t accessed much, not even by the staff. Most of the action is downstairs. But this is where the money is, so to speak.”
 
	Stephen led Judith to the fourth door on the left and opened it to a dimly lit room. “Right in here,” he said, “this should be quick.”
 
	Judith motored over the threshold with a slight bump and entered the room. It didn’t appear to be an office, but instead resembled an unused conference room.
 
	“Is … is this where you get your paycheck?” she asked, a quaver in her voice. 
 
	The door to the room slammed shut. Judith spun her chair around to see Stephen hovering over her, a gun pointed directly at her head.
 
	“You old people talk too much,” Stephen said. “Blah blah this and blah blah that. You’re nothing but a waste of space, but I’ve got two bullets and .38 to resolve that problem.”
 
 Blamm! Blamm!
 
	Two shots rang out loudly in the room. Blood splattered against the wall.
 
	The door was soon opened, locked from the inside latch, and then carefully closed. No one would find the body for a long time.
 
	###
 
	The Evergreen shuttle bus arrived on schedule. Several residents piled onto the vehicle. A moment later, a mechanical ramp extended from the bus to the sidewalk. Judith motored her chair up onto the ramp and boarded the bus. The driver assisted her in securing her wheelchair and then headed back toward Evergreen. 
 
	Judith retrieved the squeeze-ball hand exercisers from her purse and did fifty quick repetitions. Keeping that arthritis at bay, she thought.
 
	The other residents aboard the bus soon dozed off. Judith searched the contents of her handbag and found a nail file. She gazed down at the left rail of her wheelchair. Slowly she counted off fourteen notches and then, with nailfile firmly in hand, began to etch number fifteen.
 
	After returning the nailfile to her purse, Judith checked the magazine on her single stack .45. As expected, its chamber held five of its original seven rounds.
 
	As usual, her nephew John’s information had been accurate. She’d already suspected the murderer was employed at Evergreen. Comparing Evergreen’s employee schedule against the day of MJ’s disappearance had given her reason to suspect Stephen. John confirmed that Stephen had a criminal record which included violent crime. Judith had previously overheard Stephen talking about his part-time Sheraton job and longed for the opportunity to confirm her suspicions. Stephen had no idea that in offering to show Judith the rooftop view he had, unwittingly, played exactly into her hands.
 
	Judith smiled, content that she had made the world a little bit safer. Then she, too, nodded off for a nap as the bus slowly headed home.
","August 14, 2023 18:12","[[{'Jeannette Miller': 'Vigilante granny... I like it :)', 'time': '20:19 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,ycbgl2,Hannibal Lecter,Lily Finch,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ycbgl2/,/short-story/ycbgl2/,Fiction,0,"['Fiction', 'Science Fiction']",7 likes,"
SEXUAL CONTENT AND DEATHBen and Sue lived in the same neighbourhood. A sexually active straight woman, Sue wanted to get Ben into bed. He looked like a good sex partner to her—sexy and handsome. When she knew she'd see him in the complex for a tennis match or one-on-one basketball game, she wore a Brazilian bikini beside the pool to make sure Ben noticed her. She threw herself at him. At the same time, she entertained other men. She had pent-up sexual tension and needed to vent. Ben was unresponsive to her bait. He was irritating her. The men became fast friends and played tennis and swam.""Come on, sweetie—he's old. Give him a break,"" Sam said. “I don't need to give him anything. He gave me nothing. So why should I?” she said.""Well, let's bring him in for sex, and you can have him,"" Sam smiled.Her demeanour improved. ""Can you help me?"" She was grinning. She didn't want Sam to know that Ben had been her main attraction for months and that she would leave Sam for Ben in an instant.""Anything for you, honey,"" he smirked. He desired to be with Ben surreptitiously. Ben sensed Sam's sexual attraction to him. Sam’s plan benefited everyone, so he was sure Ben would accept the invitation. ""If you want, I'll ask him,"" Sam said. ""Ooh, yes, baby. ' I'd love it,' she smiled.  Sam and Ben played basketball. It didn’t take long for Sam to broach the subject with Ben about his sexual desires. “So, Ben. I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve sensed the sexual tension between us, and I was hoping you wanted to have sex with me and Sue."" Sam asked. Ben stopped dribbling and stared at Sam. He laughed. “Does Sue need to know? Can we perform a token trio and then have a private session?""“You bet.”“I’ve wanted you to ask me that for a while now."" Ben smiled and shook Sam’s hand.""She should be home in an hour. There is no time like the present.” Sam wanted to get into Ben's trousers.""All right, let’s go for it."" AS The two men approached Ben's apartment, and Ben thought about how to escape the entire ordeal. He thought I'll just let Sam do everything he wants to me. It won’t be more than an hour. ""Let me shower while you text Sue. Does that sound all right?” Ben asked.""That sounds great. I'll join you after I get in touch with Sue.The guys were soon in the shower. Ben stood by the wall while Sam worked his way down Ben’s body. ""Not here,"" Ben said. “It’s more comfy in bed.""Sue was at the door before they could get to one another. Foiled, Sam thought.Because everyone knew each other, the three went to bed, and everything was good. The three left delighted and focused for the next time. Sue excused herself to go home, shower, and change for dinner and cocktails. Ben thought it was now or never. He asked Sam to go to bed so he could finish without Sue. Sam didn't hesitate. Ben attacked and devoured him. In 30 minutes, he drained his blood and ate him. Ben brought three glasses and a bottle of wine to Sue's. ""Where's Sam?"" ""I figured he was with you,"" she said.""He left when you did. I thought he was with you."" “Oh well, maybe he went home. Should we make the best of it?” Ben led Sue to the bedroom with the bottle and two glasses. He left the next morning after intense sex and gratification. He sought out another victim. He was practically exhausted. Too much energy was expended without enough food being eaten.  That evening, Ben went to the local gay bar. He looked directly at a young guy who looked excited to see him. Ben quickly approached him, kissing him on both cheeks. In his element, the young man was giving the impression that he was willing to do anything for Ben. Ben took him to his car. Once inside, Ben devoured him. He was energized and satiated. The following morning, Sue knocked on Ben's door. ""Hello, Ben. Want to get some breakfast?"" ""Sue, our amazing thing can't last. I have many needs, and you were great, but I need more. It was a wonderful experience. Thank you."" He slammed the door in her face. She felt like a bag of hammers. Ben and Sam were jerks, she thought. And she reminded herself of her mistake for the next time she felt the urge to have an orgy. She vowed to be more careful next time. I should watch to see what Ben's idea of 'wanting more' means. Sue thought. Ben did what he always does, unaware that Sue was watching. Returning to the gay bar a day later, he chose a victim. “Would you like to go on a ride, stranger? If you're interested, I'll drive."" Ben was back in full force.“I don't mind if I do. Where are we going? I could bring you to my house,"" he offered.“What's your name?” Ben asked. “I'm Ted. ""How about you?"" ""Ben.""“All right, Ben. Tonight is your lucky night. My ticket is a one-way ticket out! A one-way ticket out of here, that is. Are you ready?""""Yes, I am. Ben said.Ted smiled eerily at Ben. “Okay, where’s your car parked? Ted said.The men left together. Sue was watching Ben's car. She saw the men get into Ben’s car. After seeing a flash, she watched Ted devour Ben. Ben's trip ended. Sue soon realized she needed to disappear after seeing what she saw. She ran into the darkness and froze. Ted scanned the alley. She barely inhaled and was uneasy about the beaded sweat on the nape of her neck. She remained there, trying to blend in with the alleyway, afraid this monster might smell or see her in the darkness. After she saw him devour Ben, she wasn’t sure what he was capable of.Ted peeked into the alleyway and smelled something odd, but satisfied, he returned to the pub for the last call. There may be another eager sex participant who wants to go home with him, he thought. Sue ran to her flat as she watched Ted enter the pub. Shutting the door, she wiped her sweaty brow. She closed her windows and turned on the AC. She wanted that sweat out of her home. What she saw traumatized her. Her hands shook, and she trembled. She wanted to unsee what she had witnessed. She was awake around 3 a.m. She saw a shadow at her doorway when she walked to the kitchen for water. She dialled 911. They caught a man hiding on the complex's property. She did not open her door, asking the police to investigate the complex instead of her coming to her home. She was too scared to sleep. She worried that the mysterious man who had taken Ben’s life had also taken Sam. And she wondered if she was next.Since she felt sick with fear, she called her parents to stay with them in the valley for a few days. Her mother was thrilled to see her but worried sick for Sue. A mother always knows. “Is everything OK? You called at 6:00 a.m. and are now arriving early, which frightened us. Are you in trouble? What kind of trouble? Is someone after you?"" ""No, mom. As I mentioned, I'm feeling sick and wanted to come home for some tender love and care from my mom. What’s wrong with that?"" But her eyes shifted uneasily, and her mother surmised there was more to the story than Sue was letting on about. Sue was walking outside in the humid air as she sweated. She was almost back to her old self after two days. Sitting on her parents' swing, she stayed outside long after she had done so in previous days. It was almost dusk, and she was sweating again. Crickets chirped, and bullfrogs croaked. She sat on the gazebo swing.A wind change scared her first. She sensed danger but couldn't react before he was on her. He wrapped his hands around her neck. He began to squeeze, choking her, and would have devoured her. But a shot rang out. Sue screamed and watched him fall dead. Her mother dropped the rifle and ran to her daughter. ""You don't have to worry about him anymore, sweetheart."" She smiled lovingly at her only child as they waited for the police to come.The police arrived. Sue had handprints on her neck. The police took Sue's statement first, and then the mother's. The ambulance removed the man's body. Sue saw the same man kill Ben. She didn't tell the police that information. ""This guy was loitering around the complex, so I came home to get away from him,"" she told the police, “because I didn’t feel safe there any longer.”""He followed me. My mother saved my life because she knew I was scared and sensed danger. That must be why she kept a watchful eye on me."" The cops left satisfied. The coroner examined the body and was confused. Ted’s body had many traces of different blood types in his system. Human digesting remains were also in his gut. It implied the man was a cannibal.""That young woman was really lucky,"" he told police. She may have been his next meal. The man who looked thirty was actually in his late eighties. He discovered a fountain of youth by murdering younger men and women to stay young and healthy. an oddity and terror.""  The story confused the police, but they didn't press charges.
","August 14, 2023 22:12","[[{'Derrick M Domican': 'This is like Twin Peaks on steroids!! :)\nCrazy twists and turns!', 'time': '12:57 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'Thanks Derrick, I think? LOL LF6', 'time': '13:42 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'Thanks Derrick, I think? LOL LF6', 'time': '13:42 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []], [{'Delbert Griffith': ""Let's see what we have here. A hyper-sexual woman. A bi-sexual man. A few cannibalistic monsters. A gun-wielding mom who takes down a monster. Hmmm. I'm guessing you had a lot of fun writing this one. \n\nI think I like the mom best. She's barely in the tale, but she sticks in my mind. Great character.\n\nSue might want to stick with non-cannibals for lovers. LOL\n\nFun, fun tale, Lily. I enjoyed the mayhem.\n\nCheers!"", 'time': '11:16 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Lily Finch': 'Del, this one was fun for sure. \nTwo eighty-something-year-olds who devour men for maintaining their young physiques and physically handsome exteriors in a gay bar. What are the chances?\nThen a woman who loves sex and is crazy for Ben. \nHer mother is a momma bear protecting her baby.  LOL\nI loved writing this one for sure. \nThanks for reading and loving the mother character. She was my favourite too. \nShe shot that guy like it was nothing. LOL\nLF6', 'time': '12:33 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}]], [{'Lily Finch': 'Del, this one was fun for sure. \nTwo eighty-something-year-olds who devour men for maintaining their young physiques and physically handsome exteriors in a gay bar. What are the chances?\nThen a woman who loves sex and is crazy for Ben. \nHer mother is a momma bear protecting her baby.  LOL\nI loved writing this one for sure. \nThanks for reading and loving the mother character. She was my favourite too. \nShe shot that guy like it was nothing. LOL\nLF6', 'time': '12:33 Aug 15, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,aoi2wa,The Precious Love of Margaret and Bill,C. Charles,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/aoi2wa/,/short-story/aoi2wa/,Fiction,0,"['Fiction', 'Contemporary', 'Romance']",7 likes,"
Margaret Reed had a secret. A secret that she wanted to share, but couldn’t; no one would believe her. It started about six months ago, right on her and Bill’s anniversary.Ted and his wife Claudette had come to visit and say happy anniversary, but it felt dutiful. They stayed and chatted about the weather and Ted’s work and how Chad was doing in school; the same kind of conversation that they’d had since Margaret moved into the nursing home. After they left, Margaret sat alone in her room, waiting for dinner. She’d tried watching TV but found it annoying. She tried reading but just couldn’t concentrate. She tried to crochet but she did that morning and her arthritis protested a second round. She decided that she wanted to listen to some music and tried to get her iPad to play the playlist Ted had made her, but she was having a hard time remembering how to navigate the tablet. Some things were getting hard to remember.She was almost in tears when a nurse came by and asked if she needed anything and got the iPad going for her.So she spent the afternoon in her armchair, thinking about Bill and humming the songs of their youth. Occasionally, her eyes would tear when a song came on that reminded her of a time long gone, and of places that didn’t exist anymore: their first house that had since been leveled to make room for a new subdivision, their favourite diner that sat in the corner of a now-dying shopping mall, the beach they loved that had been bought by some wealthy investor and turned into private cottages.For Your Precious Love came on; her and Bill’s wedding song. She sang along while tears rolled down her face and remembered their wedding day, and how handsome Bill was with his wide smile beaming.She thought about her wedding dress and how her curls had been styled and her red lipstick. She thought about the people that were there with them, many of whom were gone, their stories told and finished. It was strange to think about her life as being lived, all the chapters written. All but the last one.She thought about how much she missed Bill and how badly she wanted to see him again, to hold his hand and kiss him, and for him to call her “my darling Peggy,” the way he had for forty years.Otis continued to croon and she kept singing. Something strange started to happen. The music seemed to get louder, beat by beat. Margaret sang louder. She could feel it thumping in her chest and she felt like she was drifting out to sea, the waves rolling in time with the music.She opened her eyes to see Bill’s smiling face staring back at her. But not Bill the way he was when he died. Bill on their wedding day. They were dancing their first dance as their wedding band, The Amplifiers, played. At first, she thought it was a memory, but it was too vivid. She could see Bill’s twenty-five-year-old face clearly before her, better than she could have ever remembered it. The lines and pores and stubble, the way the light reflected off his forehead. She could count his eyebrow hairs. She looked around as they turned slowly to the music and she could see everybody she remembered being there: her parents, her Aunts and Uncles, and her cousins. Not there in the sense that she remembered them being there, but she could see where they were sitting and who with. Even the smell was familiar. It smelled like her wedding day, which is something she’d never thought about. Flowers and perfume and cologne mixed with the smell of alcohol and smoke. She’d always hated the smell of smoke indoors but now it smelled like home. She turned back to Bill’s smiling face. “Bill, I-” but she stopped, shocked by the sound of her own voice. It wasn’t the voice she’d gotten used to over the years, the one like she remembered her Grandmother having, but the voice she had at twenty-five.Margaret had always hated the sound of her voice; she thought it sounded too husky. Now, nearly fifty years later it sounded soft and beautiful.“Yes?” he asked, still smiling. Something sparked in Margaret’s memory. She remembered this moment, this moment exactly. She remembered her wedding day in the broad sense, but the little exchanges between them had been lost to the years. But, somehow, she knew what to say next.“Bill… I’m just so happy right now. I can’t believe this is real.”“I know what you mean,” he responded.More words came to Margaret as if she had memorized a script. “This feels like a dream.”“If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.”Margaret closed her eyes. Her heart felt as though it would burst. She was there really there! I want to stay here forever, she thought. I don’t ever want to go back there…The feeling of coming up for air after being underwater rushed over her. She opened her eyes and she was back in her room at the home, another song playing over the speaker and the rain still pattering on the window.‘No,” she said. “No, no, no, no… Please! I want to go back. Let me go back!” she started to cry. She tried to get out of the chair but she couldn’t. “NO! PLEASE! LET ME GO BACK!” she wailed until a nurse came in to calm her down.*	*	*She tried for weeks to get whatever it was to happen again. She’d sit in her room concentrating with all of her might, listening to music and hoping somehow it had been real, instead of some strange, enchanted moment. Or maybe it was a sign that she was losing her mind.She would try every day, sometimes for hours at a time, but it was exhausting. She started falling asleep earlier and sleeping later. She even started skipping going to some activities. (her arthritis seemed to improve from the break in crocheting)A month later, it happened again. She’d been listening to music and singing along with her eyes closed and thinking as hard as she could about the time she was pregnant with Simon, Ted’s father. It was about two years after she and Bill had been married.It wasn’t a significant memory, just one of those small sweet Saturday mornings she and Bill spent together, drinking coffee and tea over breakfast (pancakes). Then they sat in the living room together reading, while the sun streamed in through the windows and highlighted the dancing bits of dust.She listened to the music and thought about as many details as she could: the way the kitchen looked, what she had on the countertops and where she kept things in the cupboards, what frying pan she would have used to make the pancakes and what brand of syrup they bought.She thought as hard as she could, fearing that she was going to give herself a headache when the music started to get louder and she got the feeling of riding waves.She didn’t dare think about the nursing home, she just kept concentrating on her and Bill eating pancakes and reading in the living room…She opened her eyes and she was there, lying on the couch with her legs on Bill’s lap and a book in her hands. (Jubilee) She was wearing a blue top and a pair of shorts and could see and feel her baby bump. Bill was staring at his book (The Learning Tree) intently, holding it inches away from his face. His brow was furrowed and his eyes darted across the page, reading as quickly as he could. He was in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and had his legs propped up on the coffee table. Margaret always loved that he loved to read as much as she did.Margaret looked around the room and smiled to herself; this was home. The sun streamed through the window and onto her legs and her toenails were painted pink. She could feel the fullness of the pancakes in her stomach and the taste of syrup in her mouth. She looked over at the coffee table where her cup of tea and Bill’s cup of coffee sat cooling and wondered if she could pick up the tea, drink it, and taste it. She thought about reaching for it-Wait! She thought. What if I reach for it and it’s not at the right time? She decided against it and instead pretended to read her book, trying to soak up as much as she could.After a few minutes, she could feel something nudge her, like when you swim over a cold spring in a lake. A fuzziness was starting to settle in and she started to worry that she was going to drift off into sleep. She fought to keep the nursing home out of her mind; she didn’t want to be sent back like last time.Bill set his book down on the edge of the couch and leaned forward over her legs for his coffee. He took a long sip and set it down.“Do you want your tea, Peggy?” he asked.The fuzziness cleared for a moment. She remembered this.“Yes please,” she said smiling and reaching for the mug. He gave it to her and it was hot in her hands. She sat up a little and brought it to her lips and drank. It was hot and delicious and milky. It was the best sip of tea she’d had in years. “Thank you,” she said handing the mug back to him.She settled back in. The fuzziness came back stronger. The cold spring feeling began to pull at her from somewhere below and a sleepiness started creeping into her eyes.Tiredness won and she felt herself travel back to her room in the nursing home, sad that it was over but overjoyed that she’d managed to make it happen again. She slept the next day away.*	*	*Margaret honed her ability to relive the memories vividly over the next several weeks. The more she practiced, the more success she had.She found that she could stay longer too. It was like she was growing a muscle. She traveled back to the night she met Bill and to when the kids were little. She went back to the night Bill proposed and to when she and Bill made love for the first time.The nurses started to get concerned about how much time she was spending in her room and called Ted. He came, without Claudette, to visit and see if she was all right. She didn’t dare tell him about her “visits” to the past, lest she sound like she was losing her mind. She told him that she’d gotten into a reading spell and that the break from crocheting had relieved some of her arthritis and assured him everything was fine. After Ted’s visit, the nurses insisted that she spend more time out of her room and she knew that it was because of Ted’s doing. A week or two after Ted came, she found herself alone in her room and went for another visit, this time to the vacation they took to California. (Margaret still couldn’t believe that they managed to go)She put on her music, (she’d gotten good at remembering how to get the playlist going) sat in her chair, and sang along while remembering as much detail as possible. The feeling of riding the wave came and when she opened her eyes, she was there in California taking pictures of the Hollywood sign.A while later, something began to worm its way into her consciousness. At first, it was something far off, like the hum of traffic, but kept growing louder, making it hard to concentrate and she could feel the pull of the present.It was a voice, repeating the same thing over and over. She panicked when she realized what the voice was saying.“THIS A CODE YELLOW. ALL RESIDENTS MUST REMAIN IN THEIR ROOMS.”The acknowledgment of the voice pulled her back to the present when the door to her room burst open. It was one of her favourite nurses, Lucy, and one of the supervisors whose name Margaret couldn’t remember.Lucy was talking to the supervisor and searching for the light switch on the wall. “-after breakfast and when I came in to check on her- MARGARET! There you are!” she said rushing over to her.“We found her. Call off the search,” the supervisor said into his two-way before coming over.“Margaret, where were you?”Margaret was confused. “I- I’ve been here in my chair the whole time.“Sweetie, no you weren’t. I came in to check on you an hour ago and you weren’t here. You weren’t anywhere. We searched all over the place. We were about to call the police.”“Ma’am, you don’t remember where you were?” the supervisor asked.She realized what was happening. “I- Oh, I don’t remember where I was or how I got back!” she said burying her face in her hands and pretending to cry. She didn’t know what else to do; there was no way to explain it.*	*	*Margaret didn’t go for any visits for a while after that. The knowledge that she was physically traveling into her memories scared her. She didn’t know where that power came from or how it came to be hers. Her code yellow, it turned out, was the first that the facility had in over fifteen years of operation.Ted came to visit her again, this time with Claudette. He grilled Margaret about where she had gone and how she’d gotten back to her room without anybody seeing her, but she maintained that she didn’t know.Ted threatened that if it happened again, they would have to start locking her in her room and coming to get her for activities. Margaret cried and promised not to let it happen again.*	*	*Margaret woke up in the middle of the night with tears in her eyes. She checked the alarm clock on her bedside table and it said 3:27. She’d been dreaming about Bill and the old Buick he had when they first met.They were driving down the coast in California at sunset while the waves slapped against the shore. Bill turned to her and said, “You haven’t visited for a while.”Margaret turned to him to say something but couldn’t. He grabbed her hand. “Come back to me and stay, Peggy.”That’s when she woke up. She sat in her bed and listened for a few moments to the rain on the window and the ticking of the clock on the wall, fighting the urge to go into her memories.Come back to me and stay, Peggy. She couldn’t help it. She got out of bed and grabbed her iPad and headphones. She sat in her chair, put on For Your Precious Love, and started to softly sing along.She thought about that trip to California again and tried to remember a part of it where they were driving down the coast like they had been in her dream.The waves came and whisked her away again, but she didn’t find herself in that old Buick beside Bill. She was in bed at their first house with the blanket over her head. A radio was playing Otis.She looked out from under the blanket. Bill was sitting on the edge of the bed. “You came,” he smiled.Margaret knew that this wasn’t a memory; that there was no script. “I was trying to travel to California like I had been in my dream,” she said.“That wasn’t a memory and neither is this. You’re really here, with me.” He stuck out his hand. “If you want, you can stay here with me.”She looked around at their bedroom as it was over fifty years ago, how the golden sunlight streamed in and how the dust danced in it. She thought about the nursing home and the sterile colours and the nurses and the infrequent visits from Ted…She reached out and took Bill’s hand and he pulled her up out of the bed and to him and kissed her the way he used to when they were young. He let her go and took her hand and lead her through the house to the back door. “Are you ready, my Peggy?” he said while he squeezed her hand.Margaret wiped a tear from her eye and nodded. Bill opened the door and they both walked through.*	*	*Lucy noticed that Margaret wasn’t at breakfast. It had been about six weeks since the code yellow. Oh no, she thought. She went to Margaret’s room and opened the door. She wasn’t there. “Margaret?” she asked walking in to check the bathroom. The door was open and Margaret wasn’t there. What if she fell out of bed in the night? Lucy thought. She walked around to the other side of the bed but Margaret wasn’t there either.She walked back out and noticed the iPad and headphones sitting on the chair.She jogged to the nurse’s station and went into Ben’s office. “Margaret is missing again,” she said trying to catch her breath.*	*	*They searched inside the home, then they searched the grounds. They contacted Ted and the police.The search stretched into hours, days, and then weeks. The news got a hold of it and soon everyone was looking for Margaret. Ted gave up hope that they’d find her alive.Eventually, the search was called off. It seemed that Margaret had vanished without a trace.
","August 18, 2023 22:51","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'I think she is happy where she is.', 'time': '04:30 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,9wvnad,Emajanation Street,Kevin Kenealy,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/9wvnad/,/short-story/9wvnad/,Fiction,0,"['Suspense', 'Sad', 'Friendship']",7 likes,"
      Dorothy Einsberg, aged eighty nine, acted as if the world never left the 1950s. She was proud that she could still drive and rolled around in a candy apple red 1955 Chevy she bought with her retirement money. She couldn’t stand all of today’s SUVs, calling them “new monster trucks that all looked the same.” She got a few looks from male car enthusiasts, but whenever they complimented her on the car, she shook her head and called them “perverts.” The only places she frequented were the few left in Harrisburg still standing from her era - the old Shell gas station on 82nd St., the old St. Paul’s Church on 151st, and the Emanajation Street Hair Salon, where she always requested the same stylist. 
  	Dorothy grew bitter in her old age and only her nephew, John, stopped over to her apartment to run her errands, but he barely said two words to her. If it weren’t for her  long relationship with her sixty-three-year-old stylist, Helen, she would have no one in her life. Helen wasn’t anywhere near eighty-nine, but as Dorothy first told her, “you’re a tolerable age to talk to.” 
 	Dorothy feared Helen would retire at any moment, but year after year, Helen would laugh and say, “You got me. I’m hanging on another year for you.” But as each year passed, Dorothy worried more and more when she entered the salon. 
  	She breathed a sigh of relief on this particular Tuesday as after she opened the door and the bell jangled, Helen was the first person she saw coming right up to the counter. Helen always greeted her warmly, and Dorothy always grinned back through her heavy wrinkles. 
 	“Well, now. Your hair just keeps growing by the minute, doesn’t it, Dorothy?”
  	“You don’t have to lie to me. You know it’s thinner each time I come in here, damn it.”
  	“Dorothy, we have kids in here.”
  	“I know there are kids in here.”
  	Helen rolled her eyes, smirked, and motioned toward her booth. Dorothy shook her head, shuffled her tiny frame to the first seat on the left. Helen tossed the black apron on her, and Dorothy chuckled to herself.
  	“What’s so darn funny now?” Helen asked. 
  	“I was just thinking, sweetie, on how if paramedics found me dead, they’d throw something like this over me.”
  	“Oh, come on now. Where do you get an idea like that?”
  	Dorothy tilted her head to the side, and Helen nudged it back as she began to clip what was left of the brittle, wispy hair. 
	“Bound to happen. I’m ninety-one, dear. Could get a heart attack someplace, and the last thing people see of me is some white sheet.”
  	Clip, clip. Jingle jangle. The sounds of Emanajation Street became music to Dorothy’s ears. This was her happy place, and no, she didn’t have to come here once a week. But like most of the salon’s elderly customers, she came to have someone to talk to. 
  	“So, how’s John?”
  	“That nephew of mine just comes ‘cause his mother makes him. No good kid. Looks like I’m putting him out most of the time. ‘I need you to go to the Walgreens to get these pills,’ I say. He says, ‘Uh-huh.’”
 	 “Well, kids are like that, Dorothy.”
 	 “They shouldn’t be. Wally Cleaver’s not. He’s a fine young boy. Father raised him right. Even Eddie Haskel’s got more manners than my nephew. At least he fakes manners.”
  	Helen paused the scissors over the top of Dorothy’s hair and laughed heartily. 
 	 “What’s gotten into you now?”
 	 “You’re talking about a TV show. No one acts as they do on TV, especially not from Leave it to Beaver.”
  	“Well, they did then. You was just a pup. You were raised in them crazy sixties, missed the good times. Times when boys respected their elders.”
  	“My brother respected my father, Dorothy.”
 	 “Wasn’t your father a military man?”
 	 “Well, yes. But...”
  	 Dorothy sighed and looked straight into the mirror. 
	 “No one respects you when you’re my age, honey. My face looks like a prune, and I don’t quite know when I got so old.”
  	Helen checked herself out and rubbed the side of her face, studying a new wrinkle. 
  	“I respect you, and with this haircut, you look a whole year younger.”
 	 Dorothy almost choked from laughter. Helen pulled out the handheld mirror and asked what she thought about the back of her head. 
 	 “Looks fine. Just fine.”
 	 Dorothy gave herself one last look in the mirror and, for a second, imagined her younger face from her wedding day in 1951 when she married her late husband, Tom. Her hair ran down in brown curls to her shoulders, and her cheeks flushed a rosy glow. Not a single wrinkle plagued her face, and her sapphire eyes sparkled. 
  	Helen lowered the seat, and the jingle jangle awoke her temporary happiness. Only a small cluster of white hair littered the floor around her chair. Helen styled her hair as best she could with the hair she had to work with, but she knew Dorothy had just come in to talk.  She paid with her senior citizen discount, waved, and was on her way. 
 	 Dorothy drove her ’55 Chevy to the Shell and waited outside the pump with her hands on the wheel. After a few minutes ticked by, she honked the horn. After another few seconds, Dorothy blared it. She kept honking until a young employee from inside came storming out wearing a quizzical look. 
 	 “Lady, what’s up? I had to lock up the store since I’m the only one in there.”
 	 “Am I gonna get some service or what? I’ve only been waiting here forever.”
  	“Service?”
 	“Yes. To fill up my tank.”
 	 “Oh, we haven’t done that in years, ma’am.”
  	“You haven’t? Well, I got it done here just this last week at this very gas station.”
 	“Well, I don’t know, see. I’m new here, and…are you sure because we don’t self-serve.”
 	“Yes, damn it. I’m sure. Now, are you or aren’t you?”
 	The employee pulled out the nozzle and gently nodded at Dorothy’s fading scowl. 
  	“Unleaded, ma’am?” 
  	“That will be fine, sonny.”
  	Dorothy switched on the Oldies channel as he filled it up and looked straight out the window. She closed her eyes to the sweet sound of “Earth Angel” and pictured dancing with her husband in the galley kitchen as it played on their radio. He wrapped his arms around her thin, soft neck and whispered, “I love you,” in her ear. 
  	“That will be forty dollars,” the employee said, awakening Dorothy from her trance. 
 	 Dorothy handed over two twenties. 
  	“Now, be careful driving home.”
  	“Thanks.”
 	The employee waved and then hurried back to the store, where a few customers huddled around the doors. 
 	Dorothy was always on time for her hair appointments, so Helen thought there might be something off when she showed up three hours late the following week. 
  	“Dorothy...hi. I was expecting you a few hours ago. We’re a little backed up now, but if you can wait for about half an hour, we can get you in.”
 	 “Nonsense. I’m here on time, just like every week. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to get my hair done before these people.”
	“You’ll have to wait your turn. I’m sorry.”
  	But Dorothy didn’t sit down. 
  	“I’m here at the right time. I’m demanding you do my hair, Helen, now let’s go!” 
 	The other customers grew a little agitated, and a little girl sitting in the corner spoke up. 
   	“She can take my turn. It’s no big deal.”
  	“Sweetheart, are you sure you want to do that?” her mother asked. 
 	The little girl nodded. 
 	 Helen half-smiled. 
 	 “That’s very sweet of you, little girl.”
 	The girl grinned and kicked her legs back and forth while her mother exhaled and shrugged her shoulders. 
 	 “Okay, I’ll be done here in just a minute, and I’ll be right with you,” Helen said. 
 	 Dorothy nodded and took a seat. The little girl’s mother shook her head and returned to reading her magazine. The girl smiled at Dorothy, and Dorothy smiled back. 
 	 A Men’s Magazine, a Cosmopolitan, a Sports Illustrated, and a People decorated a rack to Dorothy’s left. She was shocked to find a scantily clad model with the words: “Sex, Drugs & Death” printed in bold next to her. 
 	 “Filth,” she muttered and stuffed it back in the rack. The little girl snickered. “The world today has no decency,” she grumbled. 
 	 “Dorothy, I’m ready for you now.”
 	 “About time.”  
 	Helen threw her a funny look, thinking she appeared more crabby than usual.  Dorothy was the first to speak as Helen set the white apron over her lap. 
 	 “Now, if paramedics found me dead, they’d throw something like this over me.”
 	 “Uh-huh. Didn’t we have this conversation already?”
 	 “I don’t think so.”
 	 “We did. You told me this last week.”
 	 “Oh.”
 	 “Dorothy...are you okay today? Do you know what time it is?”
 	 “Sure do. Ten o’clock, just like it always is when I come in here.” 
 	“It’s 1:15, Dorothy. I was worried about you.”
 	 “It is? Well, so what if it is? I must have slept late or something.”
 	 “But you never sleep late.”
  	“Well, I guess I did today.”
  	Clip, clip. Jingle Jangle. 
 	 “You know...I sure do wish more young people today would act like Wally Cleaver, Helen. Even that Eddie Haskel had more manners than my nephew.”
 	 “Right. I feel like you’ve told me this before too.”
	 Dorothy clammed up and stared into the mirror again. She strolled on Miami Beach with Tom this time, holding hands during their honeymoon. The sun set over the water and the last of its golden rays splintered and onto the waves. 
 	 “Dorothy, you okay there?”
 	 “Oh yes. I’m okay.”
 	“Well, we’re done for today. Does the back look good for you?”
  	“Sure. Thanks, honey.”
 	“You’re welcome. Now remember, next week, you’re here at ten.”
  	“Ten. Right. Sorry about that, dear.”
 	“It happens.”
 	 Dorothy paid with her discount, waved goodbye, and Helen called up the little girl who so graciously gave up her spot in the line. The following day, Dorothy walked in at ten a.m.
Emajanation Street was unusually busy for a Tuesday morning, but that didn’t seem to faze Dorothy. Helen stopped mid-haircut on her teenage customer and rushed over to the front desk.
 	 “Dorothy. What are you doing here?”
 	 “Well, it’s ten a.m., isn’t it? I’m back at the right time.”
 	 “Dorothy...I think you meant to come back next Monday. It’s Tuesday,” Helen said with her eyes racing between Helen and her impatient customer in the chair behind her. 
 	 “I know what I’m doing, damn it. Now, are you gonna cut my hair or not?”
	 The other stylists and customers now directed their attention to Dorothy, and the manager stormed up from the back. 
  	“Is there a problem here, Helen?” she asked.
 	 “No, ma’am. Everything’s under control. Dorothy, I’ll be with you in just a second.”
 	 “Okay. That’s better.”
	As Dorothy shuffled over to have a seat, the manager rolled her eyes at Helen before returning to the back room. Helen frowned when she finally begrudgingly called Dorothy up to her regular post. She didn’t like the look her manager gave her, and she knew she was in for a talking later. Maybe it was time to retire after all. 
 	 “Dorothy...maybe it’s time to look into assisted living. I can help you find one that works for you. You know, when you reach a certain age….”
 	 “I ain’t living in a place where they tell me what to do all day. I’m my own person.”
 “Uh-huh. But if you could, just let me help you. I can maybe start cutting your hair at home so you wouldn’t get confused and come out here.”
 	 “Confused? I like coming out here. It gets me out of that apartment.”
  	Clip, clip. Jingle jangle. 
 	 Helen only pretended to snip her hair this time, but Dorothy didn’t seem to notice. This time, she flashed back to the birth of her son. ‘We got a crier,’ the doctor said. A tear trickled down her cheek as she remembered him on his deathbed a few years earlier, after his long struggle with prostate cancer. A mother should never have to outlive their children, she thought. 
 	“What’s wrong?”
 	 “Nothing. Are we done?”
 	 “Yes. We are. But are you sure I can’t?”
 	 “Don’t do anything for me.”
	 As they approached the register, Dorothy opened her purse, but Helen brushed the money away. 
  	“You paid yesterday. Don’t pay again.”
  	“You’re the boss.”
  	Helen waved goodbye, and several customers and staff sighed collectively. 
 	 By work day’s end, forty-year-old manager Julie Wilkoff did have some words for Helen. 
  	“Helen, you’ve been a strong asset to this shop for many years. But let’s face it, you’re getting old now. Maybe it’s time you retire. You can’t let friendship come before business. You’re gonna let this woman drive out all our customers, and we’ve already lost a number to
Great Clips and Super Cuts.”
 	 Helen rolled her eyes. She hated knowing she was there ten years longer than Julie, but Julie appeared to know what was best for her. 
 	 “So, I’m giving you an ultimatum. You either choose between retirement, or I move your schedule around, and you’ll work nights, away from that woman. You are to have no more interaction with her at work. I don’t care if you see her outside these doors, but it’s interfering with our business. Understand?”
 	 “But I’m all she has to look forward to in her week. She has no family, no friends, nobody.”
	“I understand. I understand that every time she comes in, she’s hurting our business,” Julie said. 
  	Helen hung her head, knowing that there was no arguing with management. It was either   Option A - work evenings or Option B - retirement. She didn’t want Option A. From the hours of four to nine p.m., she got to see her grandchildren during the week. 
  	 “Well, I guess I’m going to retire. Congratulations. You’ve been looking for someone younger and faster than me for
some time now. You got your wish.”
 	“It’s not that. It’s….”
 	 “Don’t lie to me, Julie. This was just the excuse you needed. I’ll clean out my booth, but let me warn you. She’ll be back, maybe even tomorrow. Then she’ll be your problem.”
 	 As Helen gathered her things, Julie knew what she said rang true. She was a hands-on manager with her employees but hands-off with the customers. Julie barely knew any of the regulars’ names and never cut hair anymore. She wasn’t sure how she’d handle the Dorothy tornado. But now it was too late. Helen walked out the door and didn’t look back. 
 	 The following day, Dorothy returned right at ten a.m., demanding a haircut. Julie took a convenient mental health day, leaving the problem to the other stylists. When Dorothy saw that Helen was nowhere to be found, she started banging on the front desk and repeatedly rang the silver call bell. 
 	 New stylist Becky came running over with a forced smile. 
 	 “Hi, Dorothy, is it? Someone will be with you shortly.”
 	 “Where’s Helen?!”
 	 “Helen...um...well.”
 	 “Where is she?!”
  	Another stylist looked over with a sympathetic look on her face. 
 	 “Helen was let go last night, dear. I’m sorry.” the other stylist chimed in. “But one of us will be with you soon if you don’t mind waiting,” she continued. 
           “I’m sorry,” Becky said before hurrying back to her customer. Dorothy banged on the counter once more and then brushed past the row of people awaiting their turn in line. 
          The sunlight hit her face like the sun she remembered in Miami Beach. It was warm and comforting. It made her forget the world. She saw another car from the fifties drive down the parking lot and imagined that she had gone back in time. Her ’55 Chevy glistened in the sunlight that day. Once she found her way inside her car, she turned once more to the Oldies station, and “Too Young” by Nat King Cole came on, Dorothy and Tom’s wedding song. She cried with her head in her hands before giving one more look at Emajanation Street. Without any cars in front of her, Dorothy could see the goings-on of the shop she once loved and the stylist that was the person that she looked forward to seeing week in and week out. 
           As Cole sang, “We were not too young at all,” Dorothy clutched the wheel and
slammed the gas, speeding the classic car across the lot and into Emajanation Street with all the power she could muster. People dove for their lives as the bulky metal behemoth cut through the glass windows, spewing shards of glass in all directions. The crash threw Dorothy’s crumpled, bloody body onto the floor by Helen’s station. Her last thought was of reuniting with Tom and her son Jim, walking around town in the 1950s. She was smiling.
 
","August 15, 2023 15:42","[[{'Marc Rothstein': ""I was offered a chance to critique your story. Good choice. It was an involving read, well written, with some similarities to my story on the same prompt.\nThe trips to see Helen were a good way to show Dorothy's advancing dementia. You stayed in Dorothy's POV pretty well, until a few sentences that showed what Helen was thinking when she was fired.\nThe mental breaks to her earlier life, songs of the fifties and vintage cars were all nice touches.\nYour strong ending was consistent with Dorothy's strong personality."", 'time': '18:28 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,qwq2hu,The Cuckoo Clock ,Sarah Hinkes,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/qwq2hu/,/short-story/qwq2hu/,Fiction,0,"['Crime', 'Horror', 'Mystery']",6 likes,"
	​​​​The Cuckoo Clock
 
	The phone rang at exactly 8:05am in the morning. Greg rolled over on his side fearful of who would be on the other line. He had been through this time and time again. There was in fact so much one could do before it was time to cut the cord. He laid on his back, eyes wide awake listening to the sound of the ringer play a lyric from his now least favorite song. “This is now, the beginning, and now together, this is the end”. As the ringer slowed to a muted fate, Greg looked about his room and took in the array of clothes, glass, broken clock, and the usual debacle that “she” would usually leave in her path as she departed. 
	In less than an hour he would have to resume his other life. As he walked around the glass, careful to not cut his toes yet again, he closed his eyes for just a moment to transport himself back, way back to just before “she” came into his life. He notes with a sigh that the man he once was, happened to be smiling in the memory. Carefree, relaxed, usually curled up on an old worn chair with his notebook scribbling feverously about a dream or illusion that captured his spirit just hours before. As Greg picked up the old weathered clock, the cuckoo torn between saying hello or choosing to hide within the recesses of the wiring. Frowning, Greg knew what it felt like to feel that pull of in between the abyss of dismal to nothing. 
	As the clock chimed a broken nine o’clock, Greg headed out of his trailer and into his old beat up truck, petting his dog Rusty on his way. Driving down the long windy road giving way to meadows of corn fields and pastures, for anyone else this would appear peaceful. For Greg all he could see was “her” walking along hand in hand, laughing at some silly comment he made, or a joke he told that he knew wasn’t very funny, but she couldn’t care less as she smiled and his heart would melt at the sound of her voice. For all she cared, he could tell her how he fell in something wet, and the something, well one could use their imagination he would chuckle. “Greg darling, you are the funniest, kindest, most generous man, in all the world, and I am the luckiest girl to be with you”. Not allowing himself to be lost in the moment, Greg turned into the parking lot of his once favorite landmark and where he lived so many years happy and scribbling his fantasy of “her”. 
	He walked with purpose to the front door of the old aching monstrosity laid out before him. He pushed with now it seems these days all his might as the great heavy door heaved slightly open, revealing an old mildew smell that he had just remembered cleaning hours before. His eyes adjusted to the light as the reflection bounced off thousands of charms on the crystal chandelier that hung in the foyer of the great room. “She” had names for it would seem, everything in life that was inanimate to most, but to her she found a beating heart and therefore would name the lost soul to make it feel as if it had a home. His car the old pick up that spent years traveling with them to and fro that destination and the next was simply “Rocket” to “her” it was named aptly and there it remained. 
	Pausing in the wake of his memory once lost to him, he sat down in an old arm chair to rest his tired eyes. If he concentrated just enough he could feel “her” finger tips running through his now thinning, gray hair. He knew there wasn’t a ghost around but to Greg “her” had found a way to live on through him and would be waiting for him when he was ready to find the courage to leave. Just now his eyes blinked rapidly and he began to focus, he could hear voices near distance. That didn’t seem right, no one would be here but him and the sacred memory of “her”. “Greg it’s time for your medication now, don’t forget story hour is starting in a few”. A large burly woman in a white coat held out a small paper cup with three pills for him to swallow.
	Greg took a moment to take in the woman’s name tag thatread Marty, her shoulders were as broad as a linebacker, he swore he could make out a mustache over her glibly shaped lips. Greg could feel a panic rise to his chest, he looked around and was surprised to see that he wasn’t in the great room with “her”. He walked hurriedly to the window to look for “Rocket” and she was nowhere to be found. Marty was following him at a very slow, measured pace, she seemed like it was her life’s mission to watch him. “I don’t understand, I was just in our home, I was snoozing in my chair and “she” was there with me running her hands through my hair”. “Now, now Gregory it’s fine, just fine, you have been reading too many books again and getting ideas about a life that you have never lived.” “NO, I don’t understand, I want my chair, I want my clock, I want my”. 
​Suddenly his head felt woozy, he could feel a deep spell being cast upon him, he felt Marty take him by the hand and slowing drag him, saying it was time to get some sleep. That all his books and memories would be waiting for him in the morning. “What about story hour?” he heard himself mumble. “Gregory, you tell the same story every day, but you don’t realize that you are in here because you couldn’t let her love another. You have paid the ultimate price to love and now you must be a burden to us and yourself. Let’s go Gregory, the library isn’t going anywhere, it’s the only place that gives you and the other doctors and nurses just a few hours of peace and quiet. With those final words, Greg felt his eye lids drooping to a close, his memory a black hole and the words of the pages he had written fall away to the darkness that enveloped his soul as he slipped into a dark coma hoping to erase the memory of “her” in the library of their home with the old cuck coo clock andchards of broken glass. That song’s lyric was the last words she heard as his hands penetrated her neck and she stepped into a light and away from his endless and timeless love forever.
 
​​​​​​THE END
","August 15, 2023 21:56",[]
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,psy2bb,The Dark Files of Lazarus:  Fee or Favor,Steffen Lettau,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/psy2bb/,/short-story/psy2bb/,Fiction,0,"['Crime', 'Fiction', 'Suspense']",6 likes,"
June 13th, 2041MODERN-AGE DOCTOR FRANKENSTEINWARNING! THIS PERSON IS STILL AT LARGE! IF APPROACHED BY SOMEONE CLAIMING TO BE A DOCTOR, LEAVE IMMEDIATELY AND NOTIFY AUTHORITIES! DO NOT ENGAGE! DO NOT ATTEMPT TO APPREHEND BY YOURSELF! HE IS WANTED FOR BLACKMAIL, COERCION, EXTORTION, AND SUSPICION OF MURDER!Harrold Lars Bonman, writer of Lazarus InsightThat was my article from five months ago. It was the most eye-catching headline upon the front page of the newspaper, certainly grabbing my attention while I lay strapped to a gurney in the upper floor of an abandoned hospital.My life was already hectic nine months ago; despite our leaps and bounds in technology, the newspaper still remained in production and delivered to all corners of the city of Lazarus, built upon the ashes of Los Angeles. The year was 2041, and World War Three was firing off its first shots from halfway around the world. I wish that the horror stayed over there, out of my sight and off of my paper. At the same time, I anticipated being sent over into the trenches, no offense for the figure of speech. Being a journalist, I was expected to chase big stories, and that war was a big story.At least, until a young nurse came to us with a tale of an old man.She was a nurse named Beth Clarrence. Before the hospital where she worked was shut down due to almost all the doctors and nurses being forced to go overseas to keep the soldiers alive (we got stuck with those who looked like they were steadier at surgery during the Civil War), she was assisting one Doctor Zechariah Mengele. Both of them escaped the draft because of their age; she was in her forties, and he was about eighty-one. This confused me, so I inquired of her why her hospital kept someone working as a surgeon instead of having him retire. She said that her employer was too afraid to let him go. When I asked why she would risk coming to us to talk about the doctor, I'll never forget her answer:""I didn't. He told me to tell you everything.""Zechariah Wormwood Mengele was born in 1961, and his life was pretty ordinary. Perhaps too ordinary, in the opinion of the nurse. During his high school years, he took his science classes pretty serious, especially during the dissection of frogs and the organs of cows. The curiosity would turn to obsessing over the inner and outer workings of the organic beings, including humans. Nearly a decade of medical schooling from USC (University of Southern California), and then starting out at California Hospital Medical Center. For any other doctor, this was a highlight, the peak of their career.Obsession of the human body, especially in going above mere treatments and medicine, does affect a man after some time repressing such desires.During the late 80s, he was something of an unsung hero. Wounds that were deemed fatal were treated by him, and the receivers walked off of the hospital grounds as if they never had such inflictions upon them. Diseases that had crippled many were soon clearing up, with people showing little to no symptoms in the aftermath. There were even times when someone suffered a horrible accident and amputation was to be the most likely outcome to save their lives but, somehow, Doctor Mengele went to work upon them and not only saved their lives, but saved the limb that was diagnosed as unsalvageable. Some thought he was touched by the grace of God; others thought him a spawn of Lucifer, especially with the coinciding reports of missing persons as well as found persons with missing organs or body parts.After a couple decades and many appearances in court, there was no evidence of the doctor having performed any sort of illegitimate medical procedure, nor did any of the missing person cases link back to him. He was free to return to his career, but the damage was done; suspicions were cast upon the entirety of the hospital with patients even reporting the strange behaviors of the staff. One patient, who would remain anonymous as the nurse promised, stated that someone actually died in the same room as he was in, and that he personally saw Doctor Mengele perform an unauthorized autopsy upon the bed with the cameras supposedly shut off (the patient claimed to pretend to be under the influence of drugs so as not to arouse suspicion from the Doctor).The hospital name had stuck with me, as I recalled that hardly anyone had gone there for years because of some controversies arising from that place. Eventually, it had to declare bankruptcy, and Beth was the last person to leave the Doctor's side. She remembered that, when she said goodbye to him and wished him well, he confessed that he did do the autopsy upon the deceased patient years ago and only lied so as to save the hospital's reputation. He then promised her that he would still be around if ever anyone needed him. She also remarked that, as she was leaving the room, he uttered, ""for a price.""On my own time, I looked into Doctor Mengele's files, anything that would shed more light on him and his work. I even hit the streets, meeting with people who claimed to have visited or were admitted to CHMC. There was a young lady who revealed that her dad was taken there when his hand was severed in a mechanical incident. His doctor at the time was Zechariah Mengele, and he was home with all limbs attached and functional. But then she admitted that her dad was not the same afterwards and even went insane, claiming that what was attached to his arm was not his own hand.Another person I interviewed, currently retired, said that he used to be a business liaison who was at death's doorstep when a stroke sent him into the arms of CHMC. He then woke up, with a nurse named Beth watching over him stating that there was no way he should have lived. The procedure that brought him back to the land of the living, though, was an expensive one, and he didn't have the money at the time to pay for his operation. One night, he received a text from an unknown number, claiming that all he had to do was to retrieve a packet of papers from a source near Pier 44 and bring it to the rear of the hospital after midnight; in doing so, and with no deviations or questions asked, his debt would be paid. Boiled down, he delivered. He never said who, but I already garnered who got the paperwork.I even investigated the files of the Lazarus Police Department (former LAPD), many of which regarded missing persons or body parts. There were two cases that, literally, was one in a million. Her name was Leslie Belle, a former prostitute. She had been missing for over two years, and then she was found one day in front of a firehouse, dressed like a lady from the Victorian Era. There were marks upon her body from former stitching, and it was revealed that she had several organs replaced inside of her, and she confessed that after nearly suffering liver failure and even kidney failure from excessive drinking, an elder doctor basically blackmailed her into committing acts of kidnapping and even aiding him in his gruesome affairs of dismemberment; she suffered no prison time, instead having been placed in a mental institution for four years, examined up and down by surgeons and psychiatrists, and finally released without warning and with a full pardon.In all these cases, each individual was given an opportunity by a doctor, about eighty in age, to settle a debt that they never asked for after a surgery that saved their lives, whether they wanted it or not. Afterwards, they were presented with a choice given by the octogenarian:""Fee...or favor"".Hence, my article was made. And the attention that it got shocked even me! ""Holy crap!"" I said when my boss pulled me in and showed me the numbers. The newspaper industry practically got revived by my article, and I should have been ecstatic. But then it dawned on me; the doctor was still out there. No doubt that he would have learned about what I had said, which the boss addressed and told me to be careful coming to and from work. ""That's not a suggestion,"" he stated, ""you really need to watch your ass out there.""I tend to park my car furthest from my area of work, the habit giving me a near-absolute confidence of getting to it blindfolded. That day, three months ago, almost everyone got their own cars out of the parking lot of a very hot August day, whereas I lingered after clocking out until things cooled down a bit. When I finally came down, the space left by the vacant spots felt liberating.A roar jolted me back to reality, complete with a bumper of a pickup truck on screeching tires to my chest.My left arm broke my fall, in turn being broken. But it was the fact that I could barely breathe that really started scaring me. The truck, in turn, had stopped and someone just ran out of the car. Whoever it was, they were wearing gloves and a hat, probably for any cameras. As for me, I struggled to stand up, trying to get my bearings as my head was still swimming from the blow, made worse by the struggle of getting air into my lungs. There was a feeling like I had been stabbed and the sharp object was left inside of me. I vaguely remembered walking past the gate instead of heading to the building, as if I would get to a medical facility out on the streets.In a way, I did.A tarp had suddenly appeared around me, and I was hoisted by some powerful force that spirited me away in darkness. The pain intensified, in both my chest and my arm, and I almost forgot that I was being kidnapped! The last thing I remembered was a sensation of a needle entering my unbroken arm, followed by the desire and willful obligation to sleep.Now...I awoke upon the gurney in the abandoned hospital with that damned article above my face, as stated earlier. There was pain in my left arm, and it was in a cast, but there was something off about it, like what felt broken before was more than just reset. I'm not a doctor, though, so I didn't think on that. I was grateful that I could breathe, even better than before. And there were the straps, fresh leather and buckled snug but not too tight around my arms, legs, abdomen, and even my neck. I shifted, and then decided to not try to escape because of how futile it would be. Also, shifting hurt like hell!Tap. Tap. Tap.I've only been in a medical facility once, as a child. Anticipating the personnel was nerve-racking enough, especially when you hear their shoes in an otherwise empty hallway come to your door.Tap. Tap. Tap.My heart started racing. Even though I was no longer stabbed, it still hurt, and I tried to control my breathing.TAP. TAP. TAP.Doctor Zechariah Wormwood Mengele appeared at my side, the light reflecting off of his glasses, gray-smooth hair, and wrinkled pale skin. He saw that I was awake and watching him, and he smiled. Despite his age, he spoke with a voice as powerful as a British actor, a hint of his German accent, and as enunciated as a college professor from the forties.""Mr. Harrold Lars Bonman, I hope you are feeling good.""His bedside manner was impeccably niche. ""I feel alive"", I answered. ""I suppose I have you to thank for that.""""Yes,"" he smiled, ""and you can thank that young man who drove his truck into you.""""You didn't set this up?""""Goodness, no, not like this!"" He looked me in my eyes, dead serious and honest. ""I wanted to meet you in person, and I did pay the young man to bring you to me alive. A shame, as I tried to save his life from a growing brain aneurysm in return; that might explain why he didn't fully stop the truck. Still, his loss is now your gain. Breathe slowly; they're your new lungs now.""I felt like I got hit by that bumper again, but this time to my very soul. Another human being's organs were now inside my chest, and my heart raced again. I started to writhe in agony, feeling the fire in my chest. Seeing the pain, the doctor took a new hypodermic needle and stuck it in my neck; a few second later, my heart calmed down.""We have much to discuss, especially about your article. I imagine that you have questions for me, and I will answer them as best as I can. But I have a question for you, Mr. Bonman."" At this, he leaned in close to my ear, his hair falling close to my eye, and asked:""Fee...or favor?""
","August 19, 2023 03:38","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Freakish fixings.', 'time': '16:11 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, [{'Steffen Lettau': 'One can build a new city over an old city, but the sins remain the same.', 'time': '19:34 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Steffen Lettau': 'One can build a new city over an old city, but the sins remain the same.', 'time': '19:34 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,s3lt5s,Delayed Honor,David Elkind,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/s3lt5s/,/short-story/s3lt5s/,Fiction,0,"['Creative Nonfiction', 'Friendship', 'Inspirational']",6 likes,"
										DELAYED HONOR
 
                                        By David L. Elkind
 
I have been volunteering at Perception for two years. Perception helps people with cognitive problems, usually from Alzheimer’s disease. It hosts a series of activities each weekday that require its members to think to solve problems. The goal of Perception is to delay the time when each person’s cognitive decline renders them unable to function. I am a huge fan of the program because I’ve seen how much it benefits its participants. I’ve also had the good fortune of becoming friends with some of the most extraordinary people that I’ve known.  
 
I volunteer for an important personal reason. I’ve had a good life and I believe that I have a duty to give back.. Perception suits me perfectly. I participate fully with the members. I help them perform activities when they need help, and I tell countless jokes, some of which have the virtue of being funny.
 
 One of the amazing people that I’ve met is Phil. Phil’s short term memory is poor. He has trouble remembering the names of the people who work at Perception and what year it is. His long term memory is still sharp. He tells long stories about old events. Some members have complained to me about the length of his stories. To avoid conflict, I have addressed their concerns by telling them that these long- winded stories help Phil because remembering them gives him a feeling of some control over his life. So far that has placated them.
 
One day Phil stood before everyone and said that he had a dollar for anyone who could guess his age.
 
 “You’re 85,” I said.
 
 “How did you know that?” he asked in wonderment.
 
 “Because you told me,” I said. Everyone laughed. I wouldn’t take his dollar.
 
Phil is one of those larger than life figures. His shoulders are a little stooped, his gait has slowed, and he’s lost a couple of inches from his normal adult height, but there’s something imposing about the way he carries himself confidently, without saying a word. The first time we shook hands, he smiled and I couldn’t believe how firm his grip was. He seemed to enjoy my discomfort, releasing my fingers slowly, looking me straight in the eyes, a smile never leaving his face. It was as if he was saying, “You’re lucky it isn’t 30 year ago.” I shake hands with him frequently now, and I always steel myself for the strength of his grip.    
 
Phil served three tours in the Army during the Vietnam War. He was a helicopter pilot. “I started out with 35 colleagues,” he said. “I was the only one who wasn’t killed.” I did the research. The average life span of a helicopter pilot in Vietnam was from 13 to 30 days. It’s a wonder that anyone would accept the role. I asked Phil whether he had any close calls. He said that one time when he landed his helicopter had 13 bullet holes.
 
Phil told me about the time that his commanding officer forced his best friend to fly a helicopter that Phil knew was unsafe. The helicopter exploded, killing all aboard. Phil was so incensed that he punched out his commanding officer. “They sent several senior officers to our until to decide whether to court martial me,” he said. “They ended up sending the commanding officer to prison” at Leavenworth, Kansas.
 
Phil spoke often about the toll that the war took on the men in his unit. “You know how on MASH they show everyone drinking a lot,” he would say. “That was nothing compared to what happened in Vietnam. Everyone got so drunk they passed out. That was the only way that they could fall asleep with all of the horror going on.”
Phil saw how being in Vietnam sapped many of his colleagues of their humanity. Once he was flying over a clearing when he saw a large herd of elephants. He reported it on his radio, saying how beautiful they were. One colleague said, “Kill them.” Phil ignored him.
 
With all the of the awful events that he saw in Vietnam, I asked Phil if he could remember one that was particularly horrifying. Phil didn’t hesitate in his response. “There was a plane that tried to break through an area rife with North Vietnamese soldiers. What caused the incident was never determined, but the plane crashed near some mountains.” Phil was told to recover as many bodies as possible. “It was terrible,” he said. “The bodies were in so many pieces that we couldn’t tell when we had recovered an entire body, or who some body parts belonged to.” Then he saw something that brought him to tears.
 
“There was a young nurse that I had become friendly with,” he said. “She had gotten engaged just before coming to Vietnam and she was so proud of her engagement ring. She had one month left in Vietnam when the plane went down. I saw a hand with a ring on it. I knew.” He stopped after telling me the story and had to wipe his eyes, 50 years later. 
 
I became a teenager in 1970 at the height of the war. My family was strongly anti-war. We went to all of the demonstrations, some of which were called moratoriums. The war left a scar that seemed impossible to heal. Then the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial opened in 1982. When Maya Lin’s design was shown in the newspaper, it was often panned. Then people saw it in the ground. It was breathtaking. As the memorial widens while you walked through to the peak years of the war, the tension is palpable. Seeing 58,000 names of young people who gave their lives to what was a senseless war provokes strong emotions every time I walk through it. It’s so sad that these peoples’ lives were ended in their youth. 
 
One day seeing all of those names at the memorial opened my eyes to a problem that our antiwar feelings had caused. We had failed to separate our feelings about the war from our feelings about the people that fought the war, many involuntarily. I became ashamed that we had heaped scorn on these soldiers.
Phil’s stories gave me the ability to remedy some of the harm that my feelings had caused. When he told me his stories, I thanked him for his service. I told him that I was against the war, but that I appreciated what he tried to do in the service of our country. He told me that when he came back from Vietnam some people spit on him. He told the story with sadness more than anger. 
 
I am honored to know Phil and to be able to consider him my friend. I sense that he had an intensity about life when he was younger, but that age had brought him the ability to remain calm under difficult circumstances. For the first time since I began volunteering, one person recently snapped during a session and yelled at Phil. Phil didn’t react, and the other man was led away. When he returned, Phil told him that everything was fine and hugged him. After what he had gone through in Vietnam, a little spat fifty years later wasn’t going to faze him.
 
I’ve made many friends at Perception. I’ve never had so much fun for so long in my life. Being able to help people and to give back has been wonderful. But my relationship with Phil has been special. I often hug him when I see him. He tells me how happy he is that I’m at the facility and I tell him how pleased I am to be with him. He tells me that he loves me and I tell him that I love him. I had to decline his invitation to go hunting in Idaho because I don’t hunt. 
 
But every moment that I spend with him is special. Best of all, despite my negative feelings about the Vietnam War, I can see Phil as a hero who risked his life to serve his country. Phil chose three times to serve his country in what essentially was a suicide mission. He did so because he felt that it was his duty to serve his country even if he was putting his life at risk every day. With the release of the Pentagon papers, we know that the War should never have been fought. We still need to honor the men who risked their lives to serve our country.  
","August 16, 2023 22:52","[[{'Anthony Mansueto': 'This is a beautiful story about a beautiful person told straightforwardly.  If you wanted to add some more emotional tension and interest you might begin by setting the stage with an opening like this:\n\n""Everyone at Perception thought that Phil was ....""\n\nYou might also set up some surprises along the way. \n\nBut as someone who loves to listen to the long stories of octogenarians I am so glad that you are there for Phil and so glad that you shared the story.', 'time': '13:32 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'David Elkind': ""Anthony,\n\nThank your for your thoughtful comments. I like your suggestions, which will help me next time I write a story. Perception is really Insight, where I volunteer 4 days a week. I've never had so much fun and I've met the most extraordinary people that I've known. It feels good to give back.\n\nBest,\n\nDave"", 'time': '20:20 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'David Elkind': ""Anthony,\n\nThank your for your thoughtful comments. I like your suggestions, which will help me next time I write a story. Perception is really Insight, where I volunteer 4 days a week. I've never had so much fun and I've met the most extraordinary people that I've known. It feels good to give back.\n\nBest,\n\nDave"", 'time': '20:20 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,n0du00,The Smoker on the Balcony,Claudia Comini Goicoechea,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/n0du00/,/short-story/n0du00/,Fiction,0,['Creative Nonfiction'],6 likes,"
She waved at the little girls as they crossed the street. She always stood there, leaning on the balcony's green banister, with a cigarette between her fingers waiting for them to come back from school. Sometimes they would go and spend some time with her before getting on with their homework and extracurricular activities. Sometimes they wouldn't. But seeing their face lighten up as they looked around and found her balcony, among the rest, felt like enough. 
 
She would smoke her cigarette, sometimes two. She would look at the street, all too familiar, but always changing. Sixty years observing its every detail, still never being able to get one clear image. What had been a restaurant, and then become a bank, was now a coffe shop. The trees in the middle of the roundabout had been there only for a few years. The metro stop, after months of loud work, had been opened just recently. Even if she looked at that same Roman street day after day, it never seemed to be the same one she had first gotten to so many years earlier. 
 
After finishing her cigarette she would get inside. That was her safe space. The place that didn't seem to change as much as everything around it. The old piece of furniture where the TV was now standing had been there since day one, the couch she had bought years back with her brother, the table and four chairs, used only when people visited…everything so familiar. The little cart next to the window with its bowl full of sweets, ready for when the two little girls visited. The flowers she would carefully take care of every week. The painting in the hall, from some well-known artist whose name she always forgot. The room that used to be her workplace. That's where she made dresses and directed le ragazze, as she used to call them, which worked with her. Now there was only a table, and a sewing machine on one side to remind her of everything she had been. The mirror she had taken from her parents' house after her mother passed away. She didn't like to stare into it for too long. Her blue piercing eyes, still the same as always. That warm smile, she had learned never to change and the red lipstick she would put on every morning. Her hair, once long and dark, was now dazzling white. And then of course the dark circles below her eyes, and wrinkled skin, which made her all the more proud to be still alive and well at the age of 86. Or that's at least what people around her said to see, because then again, she didn't like to stare into that mirror for too long.  
 
That small apartment on the third floor had been her house since her twenties. It was the place she had rented and then bought, with a little help, and which had ended up being her one and only home. She hadn't necessarily planned it to be that way. In fact, at some point in time, she would have most likely not wanted it to be that way. And that point in time had a name and a face. Not that she liked to remember either of them, it was too painful. It was the name of an Italian man and the face of a handsome pilot. He had died in a plane crash at a time when she was ready to become his wife. That was the only time she had ever thought of maybe leaving that house for another one. Maybe a bigger one, with that man, and children running around. But that life never got to be lived, and she never knew love after that. Maybe she never really wanted to either. 
 
Despite everything, in that little apartment, she had grown to be who she was. That's where she had first learned to be on her own. That's where she had become a renowned dressmaker, a role model to the young women who worked with her. That's where she had picked up the phone to the happiest and saddest news. That's where she had packed and unpacked for her long travels around the world. That's where she had put on her fancy dresses, and taken off her heels after nights of dinners and dances. That's the place she had come home to after her breast cancer and heart surgeries. That's where she now prepared carbonaras on Tuesdays and invited her friends to play cards on the weekends. 
 
And that's the place where she saw the two little girls for the first time.
 
Their mother had knocked on her door on a rainy September day and she had recognized her immediately. It was the woman who had recently moved in with her husband and two daughters into the apartment on the seventh floor of that same building. The couple had introduced themselves one day in the elevator, and she had offered her help as a welcoming neighbor. Now standing at the door, the woman asked if there was any way she could leave her daughters with her for about an hour while she went to the doctor. She said it was her pleasure and welcomed them inside, saying that the bowl of chocolates was in the last room to the right. The two blonde little girls, back then no older than two and five respectively, which had been hiding shyly behind their mother, walked in cautiously. That was their first encounter, but far from the last.
 
She started spending more time with them, taking care of one, the other or both of them, when their mother asked. She then started to visit in the afternoons, invite them for a snack and dine with the family. She would feed the little one, talk to the older, and learn how to play their games. She would wear colorful wigs on Halloween, and go to every single one of their school plays. She would remember their birthdays and ask them about their friends. She would stand out on her balcony and see them turn around at the end of the street, waving goodbye before going to school. 
 
She grew fond of them, and they grew fond of her. They would call her the third grandmother, living moreover far away from both of their own so that sometimes she felt like it was real. And in more ways than one it was. All the life that people at her age seemed to start to lose, she was getting back with them.
 
That smiling old woman, which appeared to everyone so close to her end, was in reality more alive than most. She was everything she had been, everything she now was, and everything she never got to be. She was that dressmaker who missed her sewing machine, she was a loving sister, a caring daughter, a daring traveler, a careless dancer, a passionate lover. She now was the friend who made everyone laugh, the pleasant neighbor, the smoker on the balcony. And at times she was everything that she never got to be. A bride, a wife, a mother, someone who lived the rest of her days being in love. And above all that, in that blurry line where reality and irreality meet, she was a grandmother.   
 
","August 17, 2023 20:43","[[{'David Ader': ""Sweet story. Watch the spelling -- coffe. While nothing happens per se, a life is happening, focused on the old woman. I like that you don't use names; it forces the reader to conjure up images that I think providing a name would conjure up its own images."", 'time': '13:01 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,8sj6ne,One last Job to Do,Elaine Hurst,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/8sj6ne/,/short-story/8sj6ne/,Fiction,0,['Mystery'],6 likes,"
	One Last Job to Do
 
	“There was an old woman named Nell 
	Who tripped on a snail, fell over the pail,
	And fell down a long, dark well.
	As she was falling she was was heard to exclaim,”
	 Well bust my buttons and what a helluva of a shame!”
 
	Charlotte threw her pen across the room. This was her tenth try at writing a poem for the writing group she had decided to go to. It was rubbish. Pure and simple, rubbish. Charlotte really didn’t want to write poetry, or anything else really. But being retired now for more years than she wanted to think about, she knew it was a good thing, even a healthy thing, to try new activities that would keep her brain working. At 81, her brain still worked perfectly well. Her body even worked well, although not perfectly well, she had to admit. that She was even using a pen to write the bloody poetry, not her computer. Trying to do it the old fashioned way, the way she used to do it when she was a girl, so long ago.
	The trouble was, Charlotte was bored with the things that most of the other people in the retirement community where she lived liked to do. Those things were fine for them. They were old. But for herself, Charlotte had so many other things she’d rather do. But one had to fit in she’d been told by her son and her daughter, and even her grandchildren. Although the grandchildren already knew that Charlotte, Beezy as she was known to them, would never fit in with everyone else in this residential community. She liked many of the other residents here. She even found some of them interesting, and fun, in a tame sort of way. Charlotte was trying, she really was. The writing group, the art group, the walking group and even the sing along group. She had promised her family that she would do her best to take it easy, get along, and not make any waves. Although her daughter and son had a strong suspicion that their mom had had her fingers crossed behind her back when they had asked her to promise that.
	The retirement community was a nice place, Charlotte had not complaints in that department. She knew that as much as she would have loved to have stayed in her little house near the Blue Ridge mountains, right on the Shenandoah River, that wasn’t something her grown children approved of. She understood that. But at the same time, she couldn’t help but be a little put out. She was 81, true, but her mind was still sharp. She still walked everyday, and rode her bike several times a week. Why, she even did yoga every morning. She had been taught, many years ago when she had started working, that you needed to keep your body moving, and as strong as possible. She had certainly needed that while her kids were young. They had run her ragged. Charlotte had worked before she had married Ian, and up until her son was born. Then she had taken some years off from regular work, although there had been a few times when they had needed just her expertise for a particular job. Then when the kids had started high school, she had gone back to work, full-time. More correctly, work had come looking for her., and had had full-time plans.
	The work had been so interesting too. Not like so many other women she had known, especially during her children’s school years when she had helped out with everything from bake sales to the PTA. She thought back to some of the women she had known. All lovely people, well, most of them, but so boring! Whew, she had thought that if all you were thinking about was how to decorate your house and what to make for dinner, then she was going to run for the hills. That was about the time she had started both running and biking to stay in shape. Their house may not have been the most up to date, or even as clean, but the children, and Ian had been happy. They had dogs running in and out, along with the kids, friends and a wide assortment of people.
	Charlotte found she had been daydreaming about the past when she had thrown that pen down. That seemed to happen a bit more than it used to, but she had so many wonderful memories to remember, both with her family, her dear friends, and all of her interests. She thought back to work too. There were many good memories, but the nature of her work had made for some dark memories too. She bet those women who had the perfectly decorated houses, and well dressed kids, probably didn’t have to worry about some of the memories that she couldn’t forget. No, she was sure that they didn’t.
	When you are 81, or any age number probably greater than 70, you are basically invisible to people. You could go to the stores, and the cashiers called you “honey”. You could go to the doctor and everyone had that sing-song sound to their voice that made can make most older people cringe and grind their teeth at the same time. But Charlotte tried very hard not to cringe or grind her teeth. She smiled and thought about her next assignment, that got her mind off of anything that bothered her. She had been thinking about that while she had been writing that stupid poem. 
	Too bad the staff at the retirement community, and her family, didn’t realize that she had been in contact with her contacts at The Agency. Sneaky stuff, she thought to herself. Very sneaky stuff. It made her heart race a little, but not too much, and got her juices flowing, but again, not too much. How surprised everyone would be when she told them that she needed to be gone from the her apartment for a couple weeks. She’d say she was visiting family. Then to her family she would need to come up with a completely different narrative. They knew her surreptitious ways, and would look at her with slits for their eyes, trying to figure out what she was up to. That was ok, it would help her keep supple and ready for the stealthy things she more than likely would be doing.
	If her new friends who lived around her at the retirement community asked, she couldn’t tell them the truth, that might give her next door neighbor a heart attack. A literal heart attack, since he had already had two heartaches. She couldn’t tell Agnus her neighbor on the other side, either, as she would become so anxious that she might need more sedatives than what she already took. Charlotte might be able to tell Edith though. Edith didn’t really know who she was, or where she was, or what day it was. Yes, Edith would be the perfect person to tell. That way, she could tell her family that she had let people know what she would be doing. It was only a little white lie anyway. She had told so many lies over the many years of work. There had been so few people you could either trust, or who you wanted to keep safe. The less people who knew the truth, the better.
	Charlotte picked up the pen from the floor, and set it on the table. She got up, got her key and went out of her apartment to walk down the hall to the next building where Edith’s room was, in the memory care section. Charlotte kind liked the sound of a place called “the memory care section.”Someone took care of memories. She wasn’t sure what they would like her memories though. Some of them had been dark, scary, and things that most people might not even understand.
	She strolled in a nonchalant way to Edith’s room. Somehow, a nonchalant stroll meant she wasn’t revealing anything important to someone else. Although the staff, and the other residents in the memory car unit wouldn’t even give her a second look. When she got there, Charlotte pushed the button to be let into the locked ward, and walked down the hall to Edith’s room. She saw the door was ajar, and peaked inside. Edith was sitting by her window looking out at the birds on the bird feeder outdoors. No one else was there. That was perfect for what Charlotte wanted to talk about to Edith.
	“Edith, hi! It’s Charlotte. I came to visit for a little while, is that ok?” 
	Edith turned and looked at Charlotte, with a beatific smile. “Of course, dear, I love company. Come sit down. I’m sure that there will be tea or something here soon for us to eat. Are you hungry?”
	“Oh, no, I don’t need a thing, Edith. I just wanted to come say hi and tell you about a little trip I’m planning on going on. Would you like to hear about it?”
	“That would be lovely! I love trips. Did I ever tell you about my trip out west when I was a young girl? I’m sure I haven’t. I must have been somewhere around ten. No, maybe twelve. But I couldn’t have been that old, because when I was twelve I broke my nose, and I think it was before that. Let me think, or was that….”
	“Edith, that sounds like a wonderful story, but I do need to get back to my apartment soon so I can finish the poem I’m writing for the writing group. So let me just tell you about my trip. Then another time you can tell me about your trip out west.” Charlotte hated to cut Edith off, but she also knew that she might go on and on trying to decide how old she had been when she took that trip out west.
	“Oh, fine, dear, just have a seat. What did you say your name was? I did mention that I think tea and snack will come soon?” Edith looked at Charlotte, with such a sweet smile, that Charlotte hated to be using her as her alibi.
	“Fine, I’ll just tell you the brief outline of what I’ll be doing and where I’m going. I like to let my friends know about where I’ll be going, so no one will worry.” 
	“Of course, I’m excited to hear about your trip. Did I tell you about when I went out west…?
	Charlotte quickly started talking a little faster, and quieter than usual so that poor Edith might miss a lot of what she was saying. 
	“Well, you know, Edith, that I worked for the government for many, many years? Of course you remember that. I worked from right after college up until not long ago. It seems like not long ago. But actually, in a way, I still work for them, but more on an, “as needed” basis. Well, they got in touch recently and told me that it was one of those situations. It was an “as needed” assignment. I am the oldest person working for the The Agency now, especially in a position where I travel. They thought I was too old for a while, but then I showed all those people behind their desks, that I still had what it takes.”
	Edith looked at Charlotte a little blankly, and confusedly. “What do you still have, dear? What does it take? Or are you taking something? I’m a little confused on that point.”
	“Yes, well, you see, Edith, I’ve been a spy, working for the CIA for almost thirty years! That is quite a record, and I’m quite proud of it. I can still do my jujitsu, although I admit I’m not quite as strong as I used to be, and not quite as fast. But I make up for that will my wealth of knowledge, and my being invisible.”
	“Invisible, dear? I can see you clear as day. What was your nameagain?” Edith looked as though she was getting tired from this conversation, which suited Charlotte just fine.
	“Charlotte. My name is Charlotte, dear. I just mean that us old ladies are somewhat invisible.We look so harmless, and sweet. No one ever seems to think that we could be picking up, or delivering a package, or information, or anything that a spy does. I’ve done it all you see. I’ve travelled all over the whole world, and been to places you may have never heard of.” She sighed for a moment, and added, very quietly, “I’ve seen some terrible things too. The worst things that people can do to other people. I’ve seen so many things.”
	Edith smiled broadly. “Oh, that’s lovely my dear. I’m so glad you’ve gotten to see so many places. I went out west one time when I was young. Have I told you about that story?”
	Charlotte got up from her chair next to Edith, and smiled at her. She reached out and took Edith’s hand. 
	“ Bye, Edith. I hope I see you again, I would love to hear about your western adventure. But I need to go right now. I am pretty sure it will be my last job. It feels like my last job. I just wanted someone to know a little bit of what I’ve done. It would take days to tell it all. I can’t tell you where I’m going, dear, but it is a long way from here, and so very different.”
	With that, Charlotte left Edith’s room and headed back to her own apartment. She didn’t have much to pack, she knew all that would be taken care of for her. They would pick her up tomorrow morning. She sat down and picked up her pen. This time, instead of writing a poem, she wrote a letter to her beloved family. She needed to tell them what she had done all these years, and that she had one last job to do.
 
","August 17, 2023 23:29","[[{'David Ader': 'What a fun story. I wanted to get more of a tease about her impending trip. Is it real or a fantasy? It\'s a good tease if that\'s what it is. I think, too, that your opening poem might be worth rewriting so it reflects or hints of who Charlotte was or still is...""I spy with my little eye and old woman who won\'t stay in her shoe."" Just a thought.  \n\nBe careful with editing. You write, ""Charlotte kind (of) liked the sound of a place called “the memory care section.”Someone took care of memories. She wasn’t sure (t)what they would like her memor...', 'time': '19:24 Aug 25, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,x3flrl,The Fire This Time,Jeff Veyera,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/x3flrl/,/short-story/x3flrl/,Fiction,0,"['Mystery', 'Crime', 'Historical Fiction']",6 likes,"
       The crackling flames were a time machine. They took him back to the past, to better times, to youth and vigor and laughter. He missed laughter. Everything now was sadness and anger. 
             He shifted in his chair, feeling his anger rise. He was wet again. Why didn’t somebody do something about it? The dampness was akin to a swimsuit, the recollection of which drew him back to the beach, the sun and surf and the coconut smell of the lotion sticky on his hairy legs. 
             “Does he even know I’m here?”
             Jeff was irritated. “He knows. He’s not a vegetable.”
             “But does he know why I’m here.”
             “Do you want to do this or not?”
             She sighed. What else was she supposed to do.
             Jeff gently shook his shoulder, but he was at the beach, sitting in the high chair, watching the girls and the horizon and the sparks in the fireplace. He loved fireplaces. They had lots of them here.
             The dog whined in his sleep. He liked sleeping on the floor right there where it’s warmest. You’d think with a thick coat like that it’d be too much for him. Dogs don’t sweat, not like people. The people were broiling on the sand, their hair hanging in limp strands plastered to the backs of their sunburnt necks. The wind made all the difference, blowing in cool and refreshing from the East.
             “He’s not going to sign it. At least not today.”
             She looked deflated. She’d promised.
             The dog growled, which startled her. She’d heard the stories. Everyone had. “Is he….?”
             Jeff cut her off. “He’s fine. Just let him sleep.” He had little patience for the minor obsessions of a librarian. He had more important things to deal with.
             “When do you think…”
             “No.”
             They both turned, startled.
             He glared at them a moment, his eyes angry pinpoints. “I won’t sign it.  Get out.”
             The librarian stammered, “But…” before Jeff shoed her out of the room. 
             He looked down at the dog. His ears were abnormally large, looking like a bat’s. His paws were drawn up and he lay on his side, occasionally batting at the air, like a poor swimmer dog-paddling and starting to get anxious. You had to be careful with them because if you weren’t they’d pull you right down with them. 
             He leaned down and rubbed the dog’s head right around those bat ears. He didn’t wake up but sighed contentedly. He was a good dog, although the help didn’t like him. They didn’t know how to treat him so a couple of the dumber ones got chewed on a little bit. 
             “You could have given her an explanation.”
             He was staring at the flames again. 
             “Dismissing her is a great way to cause problems for yourself.”
             “I can’t sign it.”
             “You could. If you wanted to.”
             “I’ll sign something else. Forget about it.”
             “She won’t, you know.”
             He shrugged. She didn’t matter.
             Jeff felt like he was talking to a brick wall. “Maybe just be a bit more diplomatic as all.”
             “Don’t tell me what to do, man.”
             Jeff looked at his phone. “The Doctor’s here. Do you want to see her?”
             “No.” 
             “She won’t listen. You know that.”
             She came in. She looked at Jeff, then at the back of his head. 
             Jeff shrugged. 
             She looked like she had something to say, but thought better of it. Instead, she walked up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.
             He ignored her. He could smell the salt in the air. He could hear the roar. The tide was going out. 
             After a few minutes, the Doctor turned to leave. She leaned toward Jeff as she headed toward the door. “He needs his…” (she wouldn’t say the word; he got very angry when anyone did), “…changed.”
             Jeff wrinkled his nose and nodded. 
             She breezed out of the room. Visits were generally brief these days, unless it was the children. He always made time for the children.
             They sat in silence for awhile. 
             The logs were getting low. Somebody was going to have to get more wood. They could get it from the beach, maybe. With the tide going out you could usually find something; you just needed to dry it out a bit first. You need to know these things if you want to make a bonfire or have a clambake. 
             The flames flared, startling him. It was like a miniature Hiroshima or Trinity. Remember those black and white films of the burgeoning fireballs? Remember the shadows on the crumbling brick walls? Those shadows were people once. People always become shadows. Dust we came from, and to dust we shall return. 
             He nodded then, his jaw slack. The flames….
             The barking brought him back to reality, to this boring, awful place. Why had he ever come here? Why had they made him?
             “That’s enough, boy,” he said, and rubbed the dog’s head, right around those bat ears, just the way he liked. He settled down. 
             You never really think you’re old. At first, you still see the child in the mirror. Then the young man. Then the man. Then your dad. Then your granddad. But it stops being you. How many mirrors do we look in without really seeing anyone we recognize in them? We’re all vampires in that way. 
             The fire was dying down now, mainly embers. Where was what’s-his-name? 
             “Is something wrong?”
             He glared at Jeff. “The fire….” He pointed a bony finger. At 80, sometimes the words eluded him, like those girls on the beach back when. 
             ‘I’ll handle it.” 
             “You’d better,” he muttered. 
             “You should sign it,” Jeff offered.
             “I won’t.”
             “Why not? They’ll wonder, you know.”
             “Let them. Not their business. Not yours either.”
             “Signing it won’t do what you think it will.”
             “Why dredge it all up?”
             “There’s nothing left to dredge up. Don’t worry. Sign it and put it behind you.”
             He could taste the ice cream. He didn’t want to jeopardize it. Or the Corn Pops at breakfast. People could get nasty if he didn’t do what they said. “I’ll think about it.”
             Jeff smiled. It’s all he could ask. Who gave a crap about ancient history anyway? It’s not like signing the release would provide a smoking gun. They were too smart for that.
             He shut the door softly behind him.
             He stared at the dying embers a long while then, not even noticing the buzzing in his suit jacket at first. All at once, something clicked, and he rushed to respond. “Yes, Mr Chairman,” he said pleasantly, the fog clearing. “What can I do for you today?” 
             He awaited orders, the fire forgotten this time.  
","August 13, 2023 13:30","[[{'Vid Weeks': ""Hi Jeff, I enjoyed reading this, it was well written I thought, but if I'm honest, I'm not sure I understood the ending."", 'time': '23:15 Aug 23, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Jeff Veyera': 'Thank you for your kind words.  I was being intentionally obscure in this story, which was based on various news accounts.  Once you have the identities of the people on the phone worked out, it should click, along with the title.  If it helps, the genre is very recent alternate history.', 'time': '12:02 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Jeff Veyera': 'Thank you for your kind words.  I was being intentionally obscure in this story, which was based on various news accounts.  Once you have the identities of the people on the phone worked out, it should click, along with the title.  If it helps, the genre is very recent alternate history.', 'time': '12:02 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,wyltdf,Isabella; A life,Erica Gardiner,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/wyltdf/,/short-story/wyltdf/,Fiction,0,"['Latinx', 'Romance', 'Sad']",6 likes,"
Nothing really happens for an old lady in her 70s. All she has is her memories, even as they fade away. In the heart of a small village in southern Brazil, lived an elderly woman named Isabella. Her silver hair reaching her waist and her eyes which showed wisdom. She spent her days tending to her lush garden, filled with vibrant flowers and fragrant herbs. Her home, a cottage with walls that showed ancient writings and traditions.
The villagers often whispered about Isabella, saying she was a witch and disgusting. Nobody came near Isabella afraid she would curse them! One day, a young woman named Sofia, with a genuine curiosity about the world, stumbled upon Isabella's cottage. Intrigued by the tales she had heard, Sofia approached the elderly woman, hoping to uncover some truth about her being a witch.
Isabella welcomed Sofia with open arms, it was the first person she had seen in 20 years who wasn't scared of her. Over cups of steaming herbal tea, Sofia asked Isabella to share her story.
Isabella started, born into a family in Northern Brazil, in the Amazon region that was very culturally emersed, Isabella grew up  in the traditions and customs of her ancestors. She learned the ancient songs and dances, listened to the stories passed down through generations, and embraced the wisdom of her people.
As Isabella grew older, she realized that so much of the Amazon forest was being cut to make more space for livestock. She managed to get a glimpse of the words ""destruir RIO"" on the tractor that was tearing down trees. Isabella also began to see how more and more and more kids in her village forgot the traditions and the significance of the stories and dances, realizing one day they made be lost she promised herself that she would make sure her traditions would not fade away. And so, she decided to leave. Remembering the name on the tractor she knew she had to find the company. Soon she made way into a big city: Rio de Janeiro. Isabella had never seen  big buildings and different people in her life. She found herself running around asking strangers where she could find ""destruir RIO"" the company. Nobody knew. After a few weeks Isabella got a job as a waiter, realizing she needed money. Isabella was so tired she had no time to look for the company. One day, she turned on the news to see that 10,000 acres were being lost per day in the amazon. She realized she had to act quick. She ran across the streets screaming. People stared and called her crazy. She got the attention from a man named Jorge. Jorge offered to help her. Jorge and Isabella sat down for some pão de queijo and tea at a local café. She told Jorge what her problem was. Jorge was shocked. Jorge offered to help her look. They met up everyday at the café, and soon Isabella fell inlove with Jorge. Finally, Isabella managed to figure out the address of the company. She was on her way until she saw Jorge, and she knew she had to tell him. Looking into his eyes she ran to him. She confessed to Jorge how much she loved him, Jorge felt the same and offered to take her out that second to a famous restaurant. Isabella decided she would go to the company later, and eat with Jorge now. Upon entering the place, Isabella realized Jorge was actually rich. She had never tried such bougie food, nor shopped so much with him. Isabella and Jorge ended up dating for many months, but Isabella realized something was up. Jorge never wanted to help her go to the company, and Jorge barley cared about her culture. Jorge knew she was sad and took her out to a party on the beach. Little did Isabella know he was proposing! Isabella was shocked, and jumped up and down and kissed Jorge. She knew he was the love of her life, even if they had their differences. However, soon Isabella thought he was acting strange so she decided to go to the company on her own. She walked into the lobby and asked if she could talk to the CEO. Unfortunately the CEO was busy but the intern let Isabella talk at a conference that would occur in a week. She was beyond exited. She told Jorge she had to prepare for something and Isabella studied what she would say all weekend. Finally, the day came. Isabella wore her new dress from Prada that Jorge had got her and strutted into the conference room, prepared and exited. She got told to sit. She sat inside and waited for what seemed like years for the CEOs to come in. As she sat they announced that the CEO would walk in. Isabella almost fainted when she saw Jorge walk in. Jorge saw Isabella and his face turned the worst shade of red. Isabella was panicking. The man she loved  turned out to be the CEO of her biggest enemy. Isabella started hyperventilating. Immediately, Jorge ran out to Isabella. ""Jorge. How could you?!? You knew how much I hated this company"" Isabella said. ""	Isa... I never wanted you to know. I love you but this company is my income and I am devoted to it. If you loved me you would understand"" Jorge replied. Isabella's voice trembled with betrayal. ""I love you but if you want to be my enemy so be it. I will stop you!"" She screamed and ran out. On her way out she spotted treasures from her village that had been stolen. They were on the wall selling for 100k dollars. Wow. Her blood boiled. Isabella stole all the ancient artifacts back and ran out. Jorge called her demanding them back and asking for her love. Isabella told him to shut up. Soon police came knocking. Isabella knew it was time to run. She packed everything and ran. She got the next flight to a city near her town. When she got there, she realized she had taken the wrong flight. Isabella was stranded with no money in Brasilia. She realized she needed to work again, she became a waiter yet again and saved up a few hundred dollars. She knew she was wanted. She changed her name to Cecilia and lived in silence. She longed to be back home and to see her family. She missed Jorge but also hated him. Isabella realized she had to find a way to get home. She started begging people on the road to drive her. It took a year of begging and waiting, but she made it. Finally. She arrived home. She realized her village got more modern, and nobody danced or sang traditional music in the streets. The once forest was deserted. She bought herself a cottage and decided to save up enough to create a book on the struggles. She became a teacher, she showed the students the artifacts she had took back and explained their cultural significance. Soon, she was respected and loved in the town. Until, they started spreading rumors she was a witch. She was forced to stay home and be poor. If she didn't there were threats to kill her. ""That's all"" Isabella said to Sofia ""I am an old lady whose story is so empty and unfulfilled."" ""THATS ALL??"" Sofia remarked ""You never got revenge?"" Isabella shook her head ""No."" Sofia realized this story was far from over. ""I have an Idea. Why don't we make a museum and showcase the cultural treasures? Maybe we can get the attention of big shots and make them support our cause to stop the amazon from being cut and educate them"" she said. Isabella said it was worth a try. They decided they would try and make Isabella's cottage into the museum. Soon,
within the walls of her cottage, Isabella had created a treasure trove of knowledge and heritage. Each artifact held a story, each document a piece of the past. It was her life's work, her legacy.
Sofia vowed to help Isabella in any way she could, together, they embarked on a journey to share the hidden treasures with the world. Isabella's collection finally was completed. People from all walks of life could come and learn about the traditions, customs, and struggles of her people. The museum became a beacon of cultural preservation, a testament to the resilience of a community. Soon a familiar guest came. Jorge. As he saw Isabella tears dripped from his eyes ""Meu amor... Isabella. When you left Rio I decided to sell the company and search for you. I heard about the museum and I came. I'm sorry. I should've helped you."" Isabella was shocked. She simply nodded and told him a tour started in 5 minutes. She didn't know how to feel. She told Jorge that he could come for tea and pão de queijo to talk. They did, and Isabella forgave him. The village, once filled with whispers and speculation, now held Isabella in the highest regard. She became a revered figure, not only for her collection but also for her unwavering dedication to her heritage. Isabella and Jorge became hero's. Shutting down companies that tore down trees in the Amazon, and preserving culture. Soon, Isabella died, leaving behind a legacy. Jorge used the donations to the museum to pay for trees planted all over to honor her.
","August 13, 2023 22:32",[]
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,w7jnhj,Louie Lesak,Ralph Aldrich,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/w7jnhj/,/short-story/w7jnhj/,Fiction,0,"['Friendship', 'Creative Nonfiction', 'Funny']",6 likes,"
	When I was five, my family moved from Whitinsville, Massachusetts, to the nearby town of Uxbridge. I always thought it funny that we moved from one Oak Street to another.
	Oak Street in Uxbridge ran from Mendon Street to a fork in the road, where it split to the left and became Granite Street.  The right fork ran up over a small hill where my father bought a small parcel of land. Here he built our home. In the middle of the fork was a World War II memorial with a flag pole that displayed a large American flag. Facing this was a small store selling goods and candy called “Lesak’s Store.” My family always called it The Little Store.
	The building was a one-room affair. It was painted grey with white trim, and because it was built into the hill, it had three granite steps leading up to the door.  Inside the store, everything was quaint and old fashion. The floor was made of heavy wooden planks, while the two counters were made of dark-stained maple with wainscotting. Two lights hung down from the ceiling with green metal lampshades. The ice cream chest to your right held snow cones, fudgesicles, nutty buddies, Eskimo pies, and small cups of vanilla and chocolate ice cream with wooden spoons attached to the tops. I didn’t particularly like eating with the wooden spoons because of the sensation on my tongue. It gave me the willies.
	Directly in front was the counter on which the cash registrar stood and various items on display. To the left of that was the penny candy counter with its curved glass viewing top. It seemed to me it held every type of candy in the world! And because Mr. Lesak smoked a pipe, the entire store smelled of rich pipe tobacco.
	Behind the store was the Lesak’s home, a barn and, behind the barn, a vegetable garden. They kept chickens, so there were fresh farm eggs for sale but only a carton or two a week. 
	 Mrs. Lesak, known as Mama, would bake round homemade Polish bread with a nice hard crust.  My mother would give me a dollar and tell me to hurry up and rush down to buy it every Thursday before someone else could. I would also buy her a pack of Lucky Strikes because, in those days, it was still alright to sell cigarettes to kids to take home to their parents. I have to admit the fresh eggs and bread were delicious. 
           By this time, I was around seven, and my mother would often send me down alone to buy something she might need for cooking or baking that she had forgotten to buy while out shopping. She never worried about me going alone because it was only to Lesak’s right down the street. She’d say, “Watch out for cars coming over the hill!” That was it! How easy life was.
	I got to know Mr. Lesak and his wife from running all those errands for my mother. Mr. Lesak, who my father called Louie, was straight from the old country-Poland. He spoke broken English but not so bad as to be unable to be understood. He was probably around seventy-two and stood five feet and four inches tall, not much taller than most of us kids.  I remember that he always had a face full of gray stubble. Plus, all the time I knew him, he wore the same soft hat. 
	 I loved his accent. If I walked in alone, Mr. Lesak would greet me with, “Hello, boys!” The first couple of times that happened, I looked around to see who came in with me. Cigarettes were thirty-eight cents a pack, and my mother would give me forty cents. Mr. Lesak would say, “You don’t want change. You want candies!” He then would walk behind the counter, “So, what you want?”
	Buying candy from Mr. Lesak was fun because he wasn’t much taller than the counter. It had the effect of operating one of those crane machines, you know, the kind you can try to pick up a toy for a dime. Because he was so short, he couldn’t always see what you were pointing to. It would go something like this. 
	“I’d like two squirrel chews, please.” 
	“Where are they?”
	“To the right.” He’d go left.
	“No. My right.”
	“This right?”
	“Yeah. Now come forward. A little more. Now a little to the left. YOU GOT IT!” 
	 On Sunday afternoons, we all watched Sunday Afternoon at the Movies.  Before the show started, my father would call for a “chip-in.” A chip-in meant that we kids would all go to our rooms, return with some money, and put it in the kitty with my father’s donation. We were then sent down to the little store and told to buy as much candy as we could with what we had. Poor Mr Lesak. He must have hated to see me and my three sisters come in, all of us asking for what we liked simultaneously. He worked really hard for that dollar fifty!
	I have a confession to make. Once, I attempted to put one over on Mr. Lesak. You see, there was a soft drink that only came in quart bottles named KIST, and there was a five-cent rebate if you brought the bottle back. Mr. Lesak stored the returns in crates by his chainlink fence behind the store. I found out I could stick my finger into the open top and, with my other hand, move the bottle up to the top, where I could lift it over the fence. And I did. I must have looked guilty as I gave him his bottle and asked for the nickel because he looked at me hard and asked, “ Where you’d get this bottle? I don’t remember you buying it here.” I swallowed hard, “Yeah, you weren’t here. I bought from it your wife.” Looking me straight in the eye, he nodded his head.  “OK, but from now on, you buy soda when I’m here, yes?” He gave me my nickel, and I asked, “Can I have a Devil Dog, please?” A Devil Dog in those days was as big as a hot dog bun and only cost a nickel, and they were moist, not dry like they are now.  You’d be in trouble if you ate one of those before supper. I ate it.
                                                               …  
	The years passed, and one day when I was around fifteen, I walked into the store to buy an ice cream. By then, Mr. Lesak must have been about 82, sitting in front of a fan, looking tired.
	“Hello, boys.”
	“Hi, Mr. Lesak. How are you today?”
	“Ahh.”  
	I bought an Eskimo pie and put my dime on the counter.
	Mr. Lesak removed his pipe and sighed. “You know I have something to tell you. Take good care of your health, eat vegetables, and work hard. Make sure to practice doing all your chores, and then someday, maybe you will win an award for something and be famous for a week or a day. However long it last, you will never forget in your heart and feel good. He then took a bronze medal about the size of a coin with a worn satin ribbon from his coat pocket and showed it to me.
	“You see this? I won this medal for speed skating in the Nordic Games in 1901. I came in third. That’s what I am saying to you. You understand?”
	I looked at the prized medal. “Yes, Mr. Lesak, I understand.”
	“Good, good. I hope someday you, too, will be a success. Just remember what I have told you and you’ll be alright. He then did something I don’t remember him ever doing. He smiled.
	Mr. Lesak passed away shortly after, and I read his obituary in the Evening Gazette. It said his name was Leonek Lesak. Puzzled, I asked my father why he always called him Louie. He said, “I just felt it was easier to say Louie Lesak than Leo Lesak.” I stared at him for a long minute before blinking, my mind totally blown.
	Mr. Lesak gave me, a fifteen-year-old boy, sage advice.  I’d forgotten it until now. So to whoever is listening, remember Mr. Lesak’s advice. Success can be yours if you work for it.
","August 13, 2023 23:30","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Wisdom from the wise. Sometimes hard to imagine all the things an older person did when younger.', 'time': '00:30 Aug 14, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,zfngyl,"""Help Wanted""",Patricia Childs,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/zfngyl/,/short-story/zfngyl/,Fiction,0,"['Fiction', 'Speculative', 'Suspense']",6 likes,"
	Other than the aides and the occasional insurance representative, Mr Lucy, the occupant of room #042, had no visitors.
	No one ever saw him at mealtimes. He didn’t seem to eat at all.
	He received no mail, flowers, or balloons.
	He didn’t hang a wreath on his door during the holidays or a heart on Valentine’s or even a flag in July. His door was devoid of dents, nicks, tape residue, or any kind of imperfection.  The doorframe always gleamed as if freshly painted, which it wasn’t because nothing in Briarwood Assisted Living and Nursing Care was freshly anything-d.
	 Mr Lucy wasn’t interested in Monday Bridge–Come Join Your Friends!, Tuesday Movie Night With Free Popcorn, Wednesday Chair Volleyball: Teamwork, Laughter, and Camaraderie!, or any of the activities which Briarwood regularly offered. He didn’t go to the Synagogue on Shabbat, and on Sunday mornings, his door was somehow more tightly closed than ever. No one was even sure what he looked like.
	 The intrepid few who dared to knock and invite him out for a chat or a friendly game of Canasta were ignored completely. Eventually, even the most garrulous residents gave up trying to get him to socialize.
	Clearly Mr Lucy wanted to be left alone, and the residents would have gladly obliged him except for a one niggling thing that first drew their attention, then their low-key hostility back to his existence: Wellness Check/Pill Time.
	 Every resident’s Wellness Check/Pill Time began either before dawn’s first light or well into mid-morning in the same unceremonious way: two sharp raps on the heavy metal door, a calling out of the resident’s name (“Mrs Brentwood? Time for your medicine and blood pressure and sugar check! Don’t go to the bathroom yet because we need to check your urine for proteins..!”) followed by the aide’s ass unromantically shoving open the door as they backed into the room with the blood pressure cuff,  pill cups, and water all on a tray. This rear-ended entrance was done in case the occupant was still dressing (or possibly naked) to foster the illusion that residents had privacy. After a few questions about sleeping, bowel movements, and mental status, the paper cups of pills followed thereupon, accompanied by the squat bottle of Sam’s Choice water to wash them down, uncapped in their presence and poured into a plastic cup with all the grace of a third-rate sommelier. 
	Mr Lucy was the only resident to receive his pills at exactly 8.35am and 4.30pm. They were presented to him not on a bandage-colored plastic tray but on a large gold charger covered by a black cloth. The aides always knocked three times on the door (softly, it might be noted) to announce their presence. No ass-backing into #042. The door opened and closed swiftly behind, and exactly 13 minutes later, the aides backed out again, heads ducked and almost apologetic, and that was the end of it. Twice daily, no variation, no exceptions. 
	It aggravated the residents and stirred subterranean feelings of deepest dissent.
	Mrs Wen-Lin, who feigned a senility she didn’t have for the purpose of observing unimpeded everything that happened on the floor, was a consummate source of information at Monday Bridge–Come Join Your Friends! gatherings.  A month into Mr Lucy’s tenancy, she passed on some interesting observations to her Bridge partners. “One time the clock read 8.36am, and Mr Lucy refused to open the door,” she relayed in hushed tones, as if the invisible Mr Lucy might be lurking and eavesdropping.  “They knocked and they begged…nothing. And that’s not all,” she went on, her crabbed hands haphazardly shuffling the cards, then scattering them across the table as she dealt. “He gets a Jack and Coke at Pill Time. Every day–even in the mornings!--with a lemon slice on the edge.”
	Miss Miriam, whippet thin and still sharp as a tack, stared at Mrs Lin-Wen. “Jack and Coke, in the morning? Why’s he so special?”
	“He ain’t,” croaked Liam Bates, puffing on his ever-present Vape pen and leaning in to scrape his cards together. “No one is. It don’t make sense.”
	Miss Wanda, retired coroner for the local Sheriff’s Office and thus rarely disturbed by anything, slotted her cards into the card holder and pursed her lips. “There’s something different about that one,” she said, sipping from her ever-present coffee cup and tapping her cards into a neat row. “They’re scareda him. You seen them runnin’, to make sure they there ‘xactly on time for his pills?  There’s somethin’ about him got them all rattled, mmhm, surely is. Mr Bates, I bid two spade.”
	The others bid, the game began, and there was no more talk of Mr Lucy at the Bridge table that night.
 
	Two weeks went by with no change in routine, aside from the growing resentment of Mr Lucy’s special treatment, and it was rumored that the Tuesday Movie Night With Free Popcorn movie, “The Seventh Seal,” was shown at Mr Lucy’s request. This bit of intel, not surprisingly, came from Mrs Wen-Lin, sitting next to Miriam in the flickering darkness. “I overheard two aides in the break room,” she whispered in Miriam’s ear. “They said he didn’t ask. He just ordered. It’s like they can’t tell him no.”
	Miriam’s eyes narrowed. “Now he gets to decide what we watch?” she hissed. “What’s next? Menu approval?”
	Shrugging, Mrs Wen-Lin offered her friend some of her popcorn. “Come on, take a few pieces. You’re too thin,” she urged as Miriam shook her head. “Aren’t you eating anything?”
	“Not much,” Miriam sighed. “I don’t seem to have an appetite anymore.”
	Mrs Wen-Lin turned and stared at her friend for several moments, taking in the pronounced cheekbones and drawn mouth. “Have you told the doctor?”
	“Dr Forbes doesn’t care. I’m 94 years old. He only gets paid if I’m ill, not healthy.” Miriam smiled, then made a show of taking a handful of popcorn from the carton. “There. See? I’m eating.” She put a piece in her mouth and smiled. “Better?”
	Mrs Wen-Lin frowned and turned back to the screen, watching as Death took the knight’s White Queen.  Next to her, Miriam secretly dropped the handful of popcorn to the floor and scooted the kernels under the chair with her foot.
	“I didn’t see that coming,” said the knight in response to Death’s enigmatic smile.
 
	“We need to talk to him,” Mrs Wen-Lin remarked on Wednesday at Chair Volleyball–Teamwork, Laughter, and Camaraderie!, scooting her roller chair next to Miss Wanda. “He’s choosing the movies, he gets his own Pill Time, everyone bends over backwards to please him. It’s only gonna get worse.”
	“Mmmmhmmm.” Miss Wanda leaned back in her chair and bunted the foam ball over the net with her fist. “We do indeed. That man’s thinking everybody here to serve him. Not in my house, no sir.” She looked at Mrs Len-Win. “Whatchyou think, tonight after dinner?”
	“Yes, tonight after the aides go home, around 9. The sooner the better.”
	Wanda looked at her friend, pursed her lips, and nodded. It was time to do something about the Mr Lucy Situation.
 
	At exactly 9pm, Miriam, Mrs Wen-Lin, Liam, and Miss Wanda stood in front of room #042 and stared at the door in silence. 
	No one moved. No one spoke. And no one knew why they couldn’t move or speak.
	Slowly, as if buffeting great winds, Miriam raised her fist and drew it back in preparation to knock, but before her swollen knuckles hit the metal, the door swung inward, and there stood the inscrutable Mr Lucy, smiling broadly. “Good evening, my friends,” he said, graciously sweeping his arm behind him. “I’m so delighted to see you. Won’t you come in?”
	They did. En masse the Monday Bridge–Come Join Your Friends! quartet moved into the remarkably ordinary-looking room and saw four even more remarkably ordinary-looking wooden chairs lined up in front of a large, squashy leather recliner that had seen better days. Each chair in turn had a brown box placed upon it of differing sizes but which seemed somehow similar. The walls were a relaxing pale blue and hung with pictures of various religious scenes: Adam and Eve at the Tree of Knowledge, Jesus in the desert, Anubis in profile, and a large Yin and Yang, all tastefully framed and hung in a stylish manner.
	As for Mr Lucy, there was something vaguely familiar about him, but no one could quite put a finger on it. He gave the impression of being both welcoming and threatening at the same time, even when all he did was close the door behind them, move stiffly to his chair, and sit down, gesturing for them to do the same. In fact, with his red polo shirt, zippered sweat jacket, tan pants, and large black orthopedic shoes, he looked wholly unremarkable and rather disappointingly plain. 
	“Erm…where should we sit?” Miriam asked, looking at the chairs.
	“Oh, I think you’ll find where you’re meant to be,” chuckled Mr Lucy, settling himself into the chair. “I’ve been expecting you for some time.”
	Mrs Wen-Lin shrugged and chose a chair for no other reason than it was the nearest. Wanda sat next to her, then Miriam, and lastly Ian, holding the packages in their laps and watching Mr Lucy.
	“How rude of me.” Mr Lucy beckoned to an urn emitting a wisp of smoke. “Would anyone like coffee? I have an excellent supplier who gets the beans straight from Brazil.”
	They all shook their heads. Coffee at 9pm? They’d be up all night, and their stomach wouldn’t thank them one bit.
	“No? Well, then.” Mr Lucy looked at his audience, then smiled a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “Let’s begin. I know I’ve been something of a mystery to you, and it was never my intention to be so puzzling. I simply like my solitude and needed time to adjust to this last phase of my life.”
	“Oh, dear…are you dying, Mr Lucy?” Wanda asked. “Are you ill?”
	His smile grew wider but not any friendlier. “Something like that, Miss Wanda. I am retiring.”
	Liam cleared his throat. “Retiring. Now? How old are you??”
	Mr Lucy chortled deep in his chest. “Oh…I lost count of that ages ago when I realized that time doesn’t matter to me anymore, Mr Bates,” he said. “No, it’s more than that. I’m not ending a career. I’m ending a contract, a very long one. Two thousand years, in fact.”
	The four exchanged looks, eyes wide. In a place where the days bled together into one gray mass of medication, bad food, pain, and exhaustion, Mr Lucy’s presence was by far the strangest thing to have happened at Briarwood Assisted Living and Nursing Care in a very long time.
	It was Mrs Wen-Lin who braved the silence. “A two thousand year contract, Mr Lucy, is that what you said?”
	A nod. Still the polite smile.
	“That’s crazy, really crazy. What did you do, make the pact with the Devil?”
	At this, Mr Lucy threw back his head and laughed so loudly the coffee urn next to him shook.. The laughter fed itself, rising to the ceiling and becoming so large that it filled the room and pressed the four friends against the backs of their chairs. It fattened all the air into the floor until it crept back into their lungs again. It was not unlike getting the bends.
	“Oh, my friends,” Mr Lucy gasped,  “no! Gracious me, no. I haven’t made a pact with the Devil. Why, I am the Devil.”
	Liam dropped his vaping pen. 
	Miriam jumped out of her chair.
	Miss Wanda yelled, “Lawd Jesus!”
	Mrs Wen-Lin froze solid.
	Mr Lucy held his hands up. “Please. Relax. It’s not what you think.”
	“Not what we think?” Miss Wanda shrieked. “I’ve been going to church my whole life, Mr Lucy or whatever you call yo’self! I’ve been learning about you since I was a little girl, and I know how to deal with you. I rebuke you, in the name of Jesus Christ our Savior!”
	“You can’t rebuke me. I haven’t DONE anything,” Mr Lucy pointed out calmly. “Remember, you came into this room willingly, not under coercion. I’m far more powerful than you can ever—” he cut himself off with a wave of his hand. “Look, that’s not what I want to talk about right now…”
	Mrs Wen-Lin tilted her head. “I’m a Buddhist,” she said. “I don’t believe in you,” 
	“That won’t make me disappear,” Mr Lucy replied. 
	“Yes, it would…you’re nothing without faith.”
	“You’re thinking of God. I’ve always been here.”
	“Are you really the father of lies?” Miriam asked, sitting down and putting the package back on her lap. 
	“At one point, when the world was new…yes, I spread some big ones.” Mr Lucy inclined his head. “But really, since the Renaissance you humans haven’t needed much help from me in that arena.”
	Miriam pressed on. “And were you cast down from Heaven?”
	Mr Lucy sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Here’s what really happened. The Almighty has a top-down management style and not much room for advancement. I merely suggested a reorg. It was really more of a labor dispute that led to a parting of the ways. It was far more amicable than your poets and theologians assume.”
	“And Jesus?”
	“Nice chap. Great conversationalist. And for the record, he was the last person I truly tempted because I was just hitting my stride when he was on Earth, so I was pretty ambitious. All these other temptations and dark influences that you claim to experience? They come from the demons, free agents who contract with me. Truly…for the last 500 years I really haven’t had much to do because you humans are shockingly skilled at making each other unhappy. It’s stunning..”
	Liam leaned to the side and picked up his Vape pen. “This has suddenly gotten very existential.”
	“Don’t I know it,” said Mr Lucy, standing up and hobbling over to the coffee. “I’ve been doing this job for nearly 2,000 years, and now all of a sudden, I have to stop.” He poured a measure of coffee into a china demitasse, added sugar and cream, stirred with a small gold spoon. After a pause, he turned to his companions once more and said, “Sure I can’t tempt you? It’s really quite delicious when it’s made fresh…”
	Wanda straightened her spine and looked him dead in his eyes. “You, sir, canNOT tempt me. I again rebu–”
	Mr Lucy casually lifted a finger, and Wanda froze, her mouth open mid-word.
	“Holy shit!” said Liam. “Is she dead?” He prodded Wanda’s face with his finger, then flicked her earlobe. No response.
	“Of course not. I never kill people. I just make them want to kill each other.” Mr Lucy sipped his coffee, smiling in satisfaction. “Or themselves. Humanity has fallen into a very nasty habit of blaming all ills on me. My malevolence is vast, but most of your own misery is a result of having an immortal soul stuffed into a corporeal body. It’s why you’re always so violent.”
	Wanda suddenly popped back to life. She moved her jaw back and forth, glaring at Mr Lucy but said nothing.
	Mr Lucy resumed his seat with a slight groan and gestured to the boxes. “Please. Open them now. My contract expires in less than three hours, and things are about to change.”
	Liam fumbled with his box, then paused. “Wait…what’s changing?”
	“Well.” Mr Lucy was pensive, rubbing his bottom lip with a finger. “The problem is that humans have made me redundant. There’s nothing I can do that you cannot do to yourselves more efficiently and, quite honestly, more cruelly. It’s good timing, really…as I said, my contract is expiring anyway, and come midnight, I will simply cease to be.”
	Miss Wanda prised the lid off her box and pulled out a small bow, a quiver of arrows, and a tarnished crown.
	Miriam withdrew a very damaged set of scales.
	Liam clutched a surprisingly large sword, bent as though it had been in a battle.
	Mrs Wen-Lin pulled out a long, very dirty cape with an enormous hood.
	“Oh, I beg your pardon. Time damages so many things,” said Mr Lucy. He waved his hand, and with a great heat enveloping them, the scales sparkled as though fresh from the refiner’s fire, the sword straightened itself into deathly perfection, and the cape was so white it was nearly blinding. Miss Wanda’s crown glistened with jewels in the pale light.
	“I remember this beauty…” Liam stood and twirled his sword. 
	“These were mine,” Miriam whispered, holding the scales aloft.
	Wanda put the crown on her head and smiled. Mrs Wen-Lin snuggled her cape.
	“Now, my friends…you have a choice, as you always do.” Mr Lucy stood and seemed to grow taller in front of them, his head nearly brushing the overhead chandelier. “I am fading from this world, but your time has not yet come.” A series of whinnies split the night air; Mr Lucy looked over his shoulder out the window, and smiled. 
	“Your mounts are here. Ride with me into midnight and bid me farewell…I go where you cannot follow. Then you are free to ride where you will until the Almighty calls you. Will you come?”
	They glanced at each other, then at Mr Lucy who repeated his request. “Will you come?”
 
 
	When the aide pushed Mr Lucy’s door open for a final check that evening, she found the room completely empty aside from four brown boxes piled neatly on the floor, and one Vape pen. A handwritten note held in place with the gold charger read:
 
 “Thanks for a lovely time. See you soon. PS…keep up the good work.”
 
","August 18, 2023 16:28",[]
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,x5tc96,Stranger of cafe,Rebecca Maric,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/x5tc96/,/short-story/x5tc96/,Fiction,0,['Drama'],6 likes,"
There was a Cafe owner of a small wry man and would look at each customer suiciosly and grumble,not many customers would line-up there as his prices were dodgy until an o.der woman and her support walked over she wanted a simple salad sandwich but the price shocki ngly high complained to him and her support and she suggested. Cdona,d's would be worthwhile.
As he then seen at a midnight Cafe with several young males all sitting around an all night Cafe.having large amounts of coffee,they all thenwentvdrug raiding AT A NEARBY HOUSE.and grabbing a large amount of cash money and a good supply of amphetamines and coccinellids and fled off.they shot the house owners and the car drove on a d picked up two young school girls,screaming as they were hurled I nto the car back seat and parked in a dark lane way where they were viciously raped and murder,,
 
Police now driving around andthe group of men all vanished and the dodgy Cafe man at work Norma,ly with no suspicion of that crucial night.until there other young men gave themselves up and were arrested and life prio. E t on a death row and as the dodgy. In Cafe stood at the counter police rushes over and place him undergarment of murder in first degree .how had po,ice had known of that violent behaviour of the two school girls well it is been reported by the men who had giv3n themselv3s up and one of the mem had been bashed and killed by a prison inmate and the other two hanged in there cells ,turned out to be there self suicide as for they dodgy Cafe owner well he was sentenced to a life. Mental state hospital came out as an old man ,killed himself with a bottle of gin.noo e is still safevinvthat small Sydney suburb, the gang me berserk remaining still at the late Cafe having g large amounts of coffee and ore arrest on young girls around the suburb,and more drug raids in this violence T night of thT small Sydney suburb,
Once there was a time when that town was more peaceful and through thT nights bookworm sits in her u nit reading and hears the blasted shooti g ea h night. She just says I. Reading, and s,eeps through dY and. Morning comes a d all. Ight violence had ended though still some sirens of police pDxed through for security checks well it never ends ,a d Theo.d dodgy man's Cafe is still around a d another worker there even more suspicious looking, but he is him.ess than the first Cafe owner,,he looks kind of sadvserving at that Cafe, but a.. is OK,with him,and back to the night cFe more men crowd around a d having g large coffee's and all start running up the street yelling and running grabbing g a woman and throws I to get away car andvkil,Ed her for her cash monemore po,ice on alert whole Ga g's shoot out of cars and collision strikes more lives .out and arrested, po.ice report on,then a few years, afterwards a new ga g and a. New dodgy Cafe owners, ut this new there main drug lords, illed a d ore normal perso s amore normally cri e gang more harm,less just want. Cash for drugs a d been arrested or shot at,more normal people,have gotten out of that town and back to the dodgy Cafe with the new owner he often has a grubby apron andvdirty hands working g there and is tired looking,he then o every packs up working sndvhasvresigned up the coast no ore stresses for hi. Up there,that cafevhad now been shiut down,as no ore person .liked to takeover working there,and morevquiet now on home from t town until a homeless man turns up in that suburb he stole a woman's handbag but po,icevand courts ,et him go bail re.eaxe as the ho eless. An is clear,ly mentally u well always scavenging for food a d drink k money ,And later found deceased in an o.d warehouse no with suspicion of is death
Police and the corporate informed on report.a Now the conclusion of this ,dodgy person still seen T in the corner cafes raiding bashing and more rapes all over a large coffee consumption a.nd .Ter all died at the end half or Rrested and committed suicide in prison asvthey could never live normal lives if released,out,turned to suicide in prison with bed sheets a d were found ha need in each ce.,ll andthe prison warden shocked T seeing this found a note written sYing such is life hand written by o every hanged prisoners I that state prison which had to be shut c,ixed down permanently, as each prisoner had been found hanging in his cell with the bed sheets, now the old prisonbeca e a tour istry. Industry with stories to tell the tourism who visited the old jail. Houseand many more prisoner stories then ,after hearing g moaning fron a dark corner and believed become h a united over time so nomore tourists attraction ofvthat often shut down prison out is nowvalived in for ghost of the dead hanged prisoners noo e c e or went near the old prisoners loud. Moani g and wailing sounds of that prison could be heard so one day it managed to be set on firefly fireman crew ,nonethe rest feweop,e of that suburb can ,live. More in peace until new gang criminals come out but thT is another same story
The endno not yet, a,. Violence stop zeji.evthen a new gang membersvout who just ,like to drivevzround just shooti g out of there cars whilevdriving and more accidents and arrests .a d the elderly will never be the same of vo.
Iolence free in our world today, more of crime a d suicide h as ppe ING like right  nowvout on the street with a big cR crash and vio,ent driving. And police squad surrounded by police officers,  a d Tv4m00 am all had ended  and quietness a standstill of the who,e world mysterious  all quietness ,
","August 14, 2023 14:20",[]
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,3b4gub,The Hidden,Anthony Mansueto,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/3b4gub/,/short-story/3b4gub/,Fiction,0,['Urban Fantasy'],5 likes,"
The Hidden
 
Anthony Mansueto
 
No one would ever have expected that Salvatore Albatini would earn his living talking to people he didn’t know. He was an introvert’s introvert, socially awkward beyond measure, and almost certainly an undiagnosed autist. He excelled at things even most other students at the University of Chicago detested, like reading Hegel, something his dissertation advisor had forbidden him to do at least until he finished, for fear it would render his writing as incomprehensible as his conversation. But he was as passionate about politics as he was about philosophy, and had been working in political campaigns as a door to door canvasser, since his first year in high school. Later, at university, he answered an ad from a survey research company and found himself their go-to interviewer for complex political surveys in tough neighborhoods. He was the only person they had who was willing to work in North Lawndale. When he went on to seek a doctorate he surprised everyone by choosing an empirical rather than a theoretical dissertation topic and had now returned from California to Chicago where he was sourcing participants for a study of religion and politics in immigrant communities, while helping out when he could in Sonya Bogdanov’s campaign for state representative. Sonya was the mother of a fellow student from the University of Chicago. Nadia was a forceful recruiter for her mother’s campaign and led the army of canvassers with an iron fist, while setting an example by canvassing half the time herself. Salvatore had long had a crush on her, though he had called off his glacially slow and comically awkward attempts to woo her after he discovered that she was actually married (unheard of for someone in their mid-twenties in his circles) and after spending enough time with her to realize that while they shared certain political commitments they had absolutely nothing else in common. University of Chicago graduate though she might be, she hated philosophy almost as much as she hated religion and, when she was’t doing politics she was creating sculptures which he didn’t understand and which she refused to explain. 
 
One day after reprimanding Salvatore for spending too much time at each house, which resulted in him being unable to finish canvassing a single precinct in an eight hour day she called him back into her office.
 
“By the way, I found someone you might want to visit. He must be well over eighty but I found him in his back yard building a shack of some kind. He looks and sounds Italian but he was wearing a yarmulke. He might be interesting for your project.”
 
“Thanks,” said Salvatore. “Do you have a phone number, or an address?”
 
“Just the address. I doubt that this guy has ever used a phone. He looks like something out of the nineteenth century.” 
 
She handed him a scrap of paper.
 
7268 South Malta Ave.
 
“You do know that I think you are a great canvasser,” she said to him as he turned to leave. “But we would need a whole army of people with your … bizarre and unexpected … skill in order to ever get anything done. Now get the precinct finished by tomorrow or I will reassign you to envelope stuffing as punishment.”
 
The playful smile with which she concluded still charmed him, though he did not understand how she could punish a volunteer. But even now, having relinquished his romantic aims with her, he would still probably stuff envelopes if she told him to.
 
***
 
The next day, Salvatore got up at dawn as he always did and ran three miles along the lake watching the sun rise. Then he returned to the attic room in the house of a friend where he was staying for free, showered, and headed out to a coffee house to read and work on the outline for his first chapter. Once it was l late enough to start knocking on doors he set out for the precinct he had failed to finish yesterday, promising himself that he would get that done before heading to Malta street, which was in the next precinct over. 
 
The neighborhood consisted mostly of retirees. It was showed up as 95% African American on the census but Salvatore inevitably found more old Italian and Slavic immigrants and the occasional Romanian Jew. But nearly everyone he stopped to visit was home. He was, furthermore, constitutively incapable of obeying Nadia’s orders, and spent fully an hour investigating one old woman’s claim that her landlord was “stealing her electricity,” and another listening to an old Spiritual another woman insisted on sharing with him while he enjoyed the pig ear sandwich she offered him for lunch. It turned out that the first woman’s claim appeared to be correct. All of the electrical lines for the six flat ran through her meter, and her bill was about six times what it should be. So when he finished walking the precinct he kept his promise to her to report the situation to the city and to the electric company. 
 
By the time he got to the address Nadia had given him, it was nearly 6:00pm. 7268 South Malta was a small octagon bungalow with small decorative stained glass windows and decorative brickwork. The front yard was covered in what remained of a rather wild looking herb garden and was dotted with almost randomly placed statues, including one of the Virgin Mary, one of Lenin, and one that Salvatore was sure was Guan Yin. The lights were on and the heavy wooden door to the house was open, with only the screen door protecting the inside against the Chicago October chill. Salvatore climbed the steps and rang the bell. A young woman approached. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties and had olive skin and jet black hair with deep brown eyes. She was wearing an indigo dress and a saffron scarf. 
 
“Come around back. We have been expecting you.”
 
Salvatore followed her, startled. 
 
“I came to see ….”
 
Salvatore realized the Nadia had not even given him the old man’s name.
 
They walked down the driveway and into backyard overgrown with fruit trees and the remains of vegetable garden. In the center was what was obviously a sukkah.
 
“This is my grandfather, Shmuel,” she said. “My name is Lucia.”
 
The old man sitting at the head of the small table looked impossibly ancient. Salvatore would have assumed that he was from. Southern Italy or Sicily, or perhaps Greece or the Southern Balkans or even North Africa. The name, however … and he was wearing a Kippah. But the granddaughter … Lucia was an Italian name. 
 
“My name is Salvatore Albatini,” he said, introducing himself. “Nadia Bogdanov gave me your address. I am working on a … research project … collecting stories.”
 
The old man made a gesture I the direction of one of the two empty seats at the table. Lucia approached the other. Shmuel stood and Lucia took an ornate lighter from the table and lit the two candles, reciting in Hebrew
 
Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu, Melekh ha'olam, asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu l'hadlik ner shel Shabbat.
 
Then Shmuel took the large deep blue ceramic cup which was sitting before him and raised, saying: 
 
Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, borei p’ri hagafen.
He took a sip from the cup and passed it to his granddaughter, who then passed it on to Salvatore. Finally, he raised the loaf of challah and said:
 
Baruch atah, Adonai
Eloheinu melech haolam,
hamotzi lechem min haaretz.
 
Lucia then began serving the most extraordinary dinner. There were tiny eggplants stuffed with walnuts and pomegranate seeds. There was cuscus prepared with cici and harissa. And there was a most extraordinary apricot pudding. 
 
Salvatore thanked them for their hospitality and explained his project. Lucia responded by saying, once again, the they had been waiting for him. 
 
“But how …?”
 
“Ask him,” responded Lucia.
 
Salvatore turned to the old man who, for the first time since Salvatore had arrived, began speaking. He told a long winding tale of his birth outside Matera in Basilicata, the death of his father in a blood feud “because jealousy was very big then and if you look at the wrong woman, they do this.”
 
The old man made what Salvatore had always been warned was crude gesture, flicking his index finger under the back of his right incisor.
 
“That means that anyone in my famiglia who means anyone in your famiglia they have to kill each other. Which they did.”
 
His mother could not support him so she sold him to a local landlord as a servant. He was kept in a barn with the animals and fed only a thin minestra “with a salami only to smell.” The landlord’s son, however, was a freethinker and fancied himself a socialist, so when Shmuel expressed a desire to learn how to read he brought him books from the local school. Despite the fact that he was beaten every time he was caught reading, he worked his way through the “fifth book,” essentially competing primary school on as an autodidact.
 
Eventually he escaped and made his way to the United States, working as a “flood control expert —I dig dtiches” but was lured back to Italy by the call to defend the homeland against the ”Austraic Imperium,” “for which I get my lung burn by mustard gas thanks to the traitor of Caporetto.”
 
Returning to the United States he continued to work in “flood control,” as he called it. He married and had two children “which are a no good fascisti collaborator.” He made the crude gesture once again. Then, during the Great Depression, standing in line at one of soup kitchens run by the Communist Party’s the Unemployed Council he was handed a flier inviting him to join the Communist Party, “the highest expression of working class” and to “organize and direct the historical process.” I had found his calling and joined at once. 
 
From there Shmuel had defeated the KKK in both the Kensington district of far South Side Chicago and in Bowling Green Kentucky where he was nearly killed. He was hero for most of the party and was even considered as a candidate for the Central Committee. But the war intervened and gave him an opportunity to return to Italy as senior NCO working as an intelligence sergeant and a liaison with the Resistance in his native Basilicata. When the war was over he was able to stay for a while and try to find any family he might still have. The landlord’s son who had helped him learn to read was now member of the communal council and was the local Communist Party Secretary and was able to help him find his birth certificate and those of his mother and her ancestors. There were no records of his father. 
 
He was, it turned out, descended from a family of Jews who had come to Basilicata after the destruction of the temple in 70 CE. Given the surname, Coen, they were almost certainly priests. While most of the Jews had fled the region after the Norman conquests, his family had held on, nominally converting to Christianity but secretly maintaining its Jewish customs. His mother’s family had taken the name Clerici, as a hidden reference to their actual origin, and he was baptized Simon. 
 
After he returned to the United States he found himself increasingly isolated. His children were now grown and his wife died of breast cancer in her early fifties. Always the autodidact he read some books about health and nutrition and became a vegetarian. When he tried to share the good news with his comrades he was expelled for what they determined was a Left deviation. The local synagogues he consulted were willing to recognize him as a Jew, and accepted Shmuel as his choice of a Hebrew name, but they were not really able to integrate him into the community, especially since so many members were moving away from their original neighborhoods and into the suburbs, something he had no desire to do. 
 
Still, he corresponded regularly with the party secretary in Matera, preparing an analysis of the current situation and an argument regarding the principal contradictions of the period and conjuncture, a document he also shared with the President of the United States, his Cabinet, the Senate, and the House of Representatives, along with the corresponding state officials in Illinois and the Mayor and City Council of Chicago. He learned Hebrew and studied the Torah and Talmud and eventually the Kabbalah on his own and practiced a Judaism all his own. 
 
Salvatore had wanted to stop him and ask if he could record the story, but he could not bring himself to do so. But when he was finished Lucia produced a tape recorder from within a pile of books and handed Salvatore the cassette. 
 
“You probably have papers he needs to sign as well,” she said.
 
Salvatore, overcome by the story, was nearly in tears. It took him a moment to sort through his briefcase and find them.
 
The old man signed, proudly. 
 
“And you?” Salvatore asked, turning to Lucia.  
 
“I am a doctoral student at the Universita degli Studii di Basilicata. I am writing a dissertation on the Jews of Matera and the old Seminary Ghetto. I took a a few months off to come and care for my grandfather. But my life is there now.”
 
The final addition was a gentle message that she knew Salvatore was taken with her and, however much she had appreciated his visit, this was not likely the beginning of a longer relationship. 
 
“And now,” said Shmuel, “I am very tired. I go to dream and perchance to die.”
 
He got up and left the table, giving Salvatore a warm embrace as he left. 
 
“I should help him,” said Lucia. “Please send me a copy of the tape and a transcript, and anything you write based on it, even in part.” 
 
“Of course,” said Salvatore. Then he saw himself out in the chilly Chicago night. 
 
 
***
 
Salvatore was more than a little surprised when he received a call from Lucia the next afternoon. He was back at the Bogdanov campaign and Nadia had, in fact, put him on envelope duty because, while he had finished canvassing his assigned precinct he had failed to call her and report in.
 
“Nadia says you are grounded,” teased Lucia. Then she started crying. 
 
Her grandfather had, in fact, actually died that night. She found him in the morning when he did not come down for breakfast at dawn as he always did. 
 
“I am so sorry,” said Salvatore. “I hope that last night was not too much for him.”
 
“He was just waiting, I think. In any case, he left you something —a manuscript. I am not sure how good your Hebrew is, but …”
 
“What kind of …?”
 
“You will see,” she said. ”I would invite you to sit shiva with us and attend the funeral, but managing the family will be overwhelming for me. They thought that he was just an old nutter and are already fighting over what little he left behind. But I would be happy to meet you a week from Friday at the Cafe Gondar on Cottage Grove. I am guessing that Nadia will be finished punishing you by then.”
 
“I would like that,” said Salvatore.
 
A week later Salvatore sat in the Cafe Gondar sipping the best Harrar he had ever tasted. Lucia entered, wearing the same indigo dress and saffron scarf as she had when he had first met her. 
 
“So what made you decide to study in Italy?” He asked. 
 
“My grandfather’s stories and my parents’ abuse,” she answered smiling.
 
“And to stay?”
 
“A wonderful fiancé,” she said, “and Il Sanguinello.”
 
“Il San …”
 
“It is a new political collective dedicated Communism as a spiritual project. You can consider yourself an honorary member.”
 
Then she opened her satchel and pulled out a book of some kind. It was bound with dark leather with deep ultramarine decorations on it: a Mogen David and the Hebrew letters Lamed Vav.
 
“I am not at all sure what it is. My Hebrew is very limited. But it is entitled Ha Nistarim: the Hidden.”
 
“And he wrote this?”
 
“Yes. The letter he left said that he wrote it for the one who and heard his story and understood.”
 
Salvatore took the book. It was a magnificent work of art, with hand lettering and complex illuminations. 
 
“It just doesn’t feel right for me to …”
 
“I think that if he could have, he would have had you as his apprentice. And failing that he would have left you me,” said Lucia. “But you came too late and he knew that my own life had already unfolded too far, and that I had found my place and my partner, and my calling. I think that you will find here the guidance you need in living … your calling.”
 
“My Hebrew is limited as well, but this will give me a motive to improve it. Will I see you again?”
 
“Not soon. I leave tomorrow and have no plans to return to Chicago anytime soon. But you are always welcome to visit in Matera. I suspect our paths will cross again.”
 
Salvatore had hoped to prolong the conversation, but Lucia rose to leave.
 
“I need to pack and get ready for my journey. And besides, I promised Nadia that I would not keep you away from the office for too long. What in the world did you do?”
 
Then she smiled with pretend disapproval, turned, and left.  
","August 17, 2023 14:15","[[{'David Elkind': ""Anthony,\n\nAnthony,\n\nI enjoyed your story a lot. I felt that it was very rich and I enjoyed the cultural references. During my first trip to Italy in 2010, we found a synagogue, I believe in Umbria. My problem with the story is the opening paragraph. You have way too many things going on with it. I was pleased that the rest of the story flowed smoothly, but the opening paragraph was exhausting. Be patient and allow things  to progress naturally. Don't add things that don't help the story. \n\nBest,\n\nDave Elkind"", 'time': '01:47 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Anthony Mansueto': 'Thanks.', 'time': '13:33 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Anthony Mansueto': 'Thanks.', 'time': '13:33 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,fnck3u,By Your Side,Maggie Holman,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/fnck3u/,/short-story/fnck3u/,Fiction,0,['Drama'],5 likes,"
Just before Michael had arrived at his Gran’s for his usual summer holiday, his Mum had told him that Gran had a lodger and that he was to be very polite to her. Michael had never met a ‘lodger’ before and he was intrigued. “Would you take Kath’s tea tray for me?” said Dora, just after he arrived, “and be careful on the stairs.”“OK,” said Michael, jumping at the chance to meet the mysterious lady.He picked up the small tray. It wasn’t particularly heavy, but everything on it – the lace doily, the china cup and saucer, the engraved silver teapot, the plate of biscuits – looked so delicate that he couldn’t help but take special care as he set off.When he arrived at Kath’s door, Michael put the tray down on the carpet and was just about to knock quietly, when he suddenly paused, because he could hear a voice. Someone was talking quietly on the other side of the door. Just like a lot of kids, nosey and naïve at the same time, he put his ear to the door and tried to listen. A woman’s voice was talking in a language he didn’t recognise. He waited a moment, knocked quietly and the voice abruptly stopped.“Come in,” said the voice, its tone quite formal.Michael opened the door, picked up the tray and went inside. He knew his Gran’s spare bedroom well, and as he looked around, he could see that the familiar furniture was now draped in Kath’s belongings. A collection of books and personal photos were displayed on the dresser in the corner. Items of jewellery lay strewn across the chest-of-drawers. A coat hung over the back of a chair. The room had a neat, tidy, cosy feel.Kath was sitting in the rust-coloured armchair, the one Michael liked to curl up in when he was younger. She was old, looked a good bit older than his Gran, but she was very pretty in an elderly sort of way. Her white hair was pulled back in a bun and her face wore a hint of gently-applied rouge and lipstick. She was dressed in a matching blouse and skirt, topped by an elegant pearl necklace.   “Hello. I’m Michael. I’ve brought your tea.”“Hello, Michael,” Kath replied, in a voice that was very pronounced, what Michael’s Mum would describe as ‘posh’. “Thank you. Please, just put it on the little table there.”Kath watched as Michael followed her instructions.“I’ve heard a lot about you. Dora’s very proud of you. And how old are you?”“I’m eleven.”“Ah. Such a nice age! Are you staying for the summer?”“No, just for two weeks. I have to go back and get ready for big school.”Michael winced. He meant to say ‘secondary school’. “Well, I hope we get to chat while you’re here,” said Kath. “Thank you for bringing my tea.”Michael took that as a hint that he could go and he left, closing the door behind him.“Does Kath sit up in her room by herself? All the time?” said Michael, when he returned to the kitchen.“We have breakfast and dinner together,” said Gran, “and occasionally she comes down to watch TV, but mostly she likes to keep herself to herself.”    “She was talking in a strange language.”“Was she? Well, she probably thinks you do too, dear.”For the next few days, Dora, Kath and Michael ate breakfast and dinner together, but as Dora had said, Kath liked to spend a lot of time on her own. Occasionally, when Michael went past her door, he stopped to listen, and sometimes he heard her talking again, in a language that clearly wasn’t English.*The weekend soon came round and it was time for the village’s summer fair. Dora made cakes, scones and biscuits for the bakery stall, the proceeds of which were given to local charities. Michael always looked forward to the fair and was sitting at the kitchen table, counting out his pocket money.  “This year I’m helping at the cake stall for the whole afternoon, so you’ll have to occupy yourself for a while,” said Dora. “And there’s more to look at this year. The committee’s opened the fair to outside traders for the first time. There’s all sorts of things to do, and you know where I’ll be if you need me.”Just before midday, the morning mist cleared. Michael helped his Gran to carry all her baking products towards the park. Overhead there was a brilliant blue sky. It looked like it was going to be a beautiful afternoon. In the park, there were various vendors setting up their stalls and although the fair didn’t start until two, people were already browsing through the items people had for sale. Michael stayed around the cake stall until the mayor declared the event officially open, and then he hurried off to spend his cash.First he browsed at the second-hand stalls, looking in particular for pieces to add to his LEGO collection, and then he bought himself an ice cream. As he strolled along the rows of stalls, he stopped at a shooting gallery. It was similar to the stalls Michael had seen at other fairs, but without the usual moving targets of ducks or small people passing by. Instead, this stall had ten small round targets, set out in rows; four in the first row, three in the second, two behind and a single target at the back, furthest away. A set of air rifles lay on the counter, beneath an advert which said ‘HIT TEN BULLS EYES AND WIN £250’.The message was reinforced by shouts of “Roll up! Roll up!” from the young stallholder, who looked quite bored. “Have a go at hitting all ten bulls. I bet you can’t do it!”When Michael paid his pound, picked up a rifle and had a go, he discovered just how difficult it was. After a second attempt, he decided to watch other people and see how they fared. Some did better, other didn’t. One or two reached five or six bulls eyes, but no-one was able to reach that goal of hitting all ten.“Do you think I should have a go?” said a voice from behind.Michael turned round and saw Kath standing next to him. He looked at her, dressed in her summer dress and her ever-present pearls, with her handbag on her arm, and thought ‘No, you don’t have a chance’, but then he felt quite guilty when she said “If I win the prize, I’ll split it with you.”Kath gave her handbag to Michael to hold, paid her money, put on her glasses and, to the stallholder’s obvious amusement, picked up a rifle. She looked it over carefully, turning it this way and that. The stallholder reached over and took it from her.“Here, let me help you. Right, you get ten pellets for your pound,” he said, fitting a magazine just in front of the trigger guard. “To take a shot, you just have to pull this lever back and then push it forwards again to load a pellet, fire the shot and then repeat the process. Well, good luck!”    He passed the rifle back to Kath, who raised it, resting the butt on her shoulder, and closed her left eye. With her right eye on the target, she put her finger on the trigger, took aim, paused for a split second and then suddenly fired seven shots in quick succession. The stallholder stared, Michael stared, the people standing around the shooting gallery all stared, because Kath had scored bulls eyes on all the targets in the first two rows. The stallholder walked across and checked, just to be sure.“How did you do that?” he said, turning to Kath.“What do you mean, how did I do that?” said Kath, in her clipped English, “You saw what I did. Now, watch out, young man. I’m going to get the other three.”The stallholder had no choice than to step out of the way. He stood to one side and watched as Kath raised the rifle again. She took a little bit more time than in her first round of shots, to weigh up the two more distant targets, but when she fired two shots, she scored two more bulls eyes. Michael cheered. Everyone else cheered. A small crowd began to gather, while the stallholder looked uncomfortable.“You did it, Kath! You did it!” Michael shouted. “That was so cool! You’re going to win the money!” “You’ll never get the last one,” said the stallholder, although he didn’t sound very confident. “It’s too far away.”“How far, do you think?” said Kath.The stallholder looked, weighed up the distance.“About fifty metres.”Kath gave him a single, knowing glance and raised the rifle a third time. The now-large crowd fell silent. Everyone watched, expectant, while Kath took aim and paused. Off to the side, the stallholder could see her expression. Her left eye was closed again as she focussed on the distant target and she was running her tongue along her lower lip. She paused, frozen in her aiming position, until some of the crowd began to mutter restlessly, and then suddenly Michael saw an old man step out from the crowd.He was small and stout, dressed in work overalls, an old tweed jacket and a flat cap. He walked over to Kath, stood close to her and seemed to whisper in her ear. He stood still, beside Kath, until she fired a single final shot. The stallholder ran to the distant target, checked it, turned to Kath and gave a thumbs up. The crowd burst into a frenzy of clapping and cheering, and no-one noticed that the old man had disappeared.“Well, I wasn’t expecting anyone to score a perfect ten,” said the stallholder, laughing, when he returned to his counter, “but here’s your money. You clearly deserve it.” “Thank you, young man,” said Kath, as she popped the cash into her handbag and winked at Michael.“But where did you learn to shoot like that?” said the stallholder.“Oh, someone taught me, years ago, and now I know I haven’t lost the knack for it.”*Later that afternoon, when the fair was over, Dora, Kath and Michael sat together in the sunny back garden.“I hear you caused quite a stir at the shooting gallery today,” said Dora.“Kath was amazing,” said Michael, jumping in. “She hit every bulls eye. Made it look easy.”“So I heard. I didn’t know you knew how to shoot at all, never mind so well. Where did you learn? At a gun club?” “Oh, it was years ago,” said Kath, waving her hand dismissively and deliberately sounding vague. “Last time I fired a rifle, I was eleven years old.”“Like I am now,” said Michael.“Yes, and that reminds me; I said I’d split the money with you, if I won. Here you go.”Kath counted out some of the notes in her handbag and passed them to Michael, who stared at the money, wide-eyed.“Thank you!”“Lucky boy,” said Dora.“And this is for your baking stall fund,” said Kath, as she handed the rest to Dora.“Are you sure?”“Absolutely.” “But Kath,” said Michael, “who was that man who went over to speak to you?”“What man?”“Just before you took the last shot, an old man walked up and stood beside you.”Kath turned in Michael’s direction and stared at him.“Just someone I knew a long time ago.”“From round here?” said Dora. “I thought you didn’t know anyone here when you moved in.”Kath stood up.“You know, I’m feeling suddenly quite tired. It must be all this excitement. I think I’ll go and lie down for a bit.”“OK. See you later,” said Dora, and Kath waved over her shoulder as she walked into the house.*Upstairs, Kath closed her bedroom door and put her handbag on the chair. For a moment she looked out of the window, at the view of the village, at the cloudless blue sky, then she walked across to the dresser, to her collection of photos. She took down one particular photo. It was black and white, old and grainy. An old man, dressed in overalls, a tweed jacket and a flat cap, was smiling at her. In the background was a field with horses, and beyond that, the peaks of a mountain range, covered in trees and low cloud. Kath placed her hand gently on the photo.“Dziadek,” she whispered, as she began to speak in Polish. “Wydawało mi się, że wyczuwam dziś Waszą obecność na targach. Jesteś obok mnie, tak jak obiecałeś, że będziesz po tych wszystkich latach.” Grandpa. I thought I sensed your presence at the fair today. You’re beside me, like you said you would be, after all these years.Kath remembered the way her grandfather would call her his little Kasia. She kept her hand on the photo and closed her eyes. “Całe życie, Dziadek, kiedy jestem sama, rozmawiam z tobą. Uratowałeś  mnie i przepraszam, że nie mogłem uratować ciebie.” All my life, Dziadek, when I’ve been alone, I talk to you. You saved me, and I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”  She sat down in the rust-coloured armchair and put the photo on the little table. Kath couldn’t share her story; she’d never wanted to and never had to. No-one needed to know, all these years later, that she was five years old when the Nazis came to their farm on the German-Polish border, how her Dziadek hid her in the forest after her parents were killed, how they survived there together for six long years. Despite her young age, he made her learn to shoot his rifle, for her own protection, so when a single German soldier - retreating, desperate and afraid - killed her beloved Dziadek in the forest, she picked up the rifle, as Dziadek had taught her, and shot him.         
","August 18, 2023 19:35","[[{'Kevin Logue': ""Very good Maggie. Started off plenty wholesome, reminded me of young Forest Gump meeting the lodgers, then the strange language had me wondering if there was magical twist ahead. However you brought it back into the unfortunate dark side of humanity.\n\nPlenty of mystery and flowed very well.\n\nIf I can offer one small critique slash piece of advice, be careful of overusing adverbs, I'm not against them it's just you have multiples in some sentences and paragraphs. Other than that minute detail, a very well crafted story."", 'time': '06:22 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Maggie Holman': ""Hi Kevin. Thanks for your comments. I'm glad you liked the story. Thanks for the tip about adverbs. Will bear that in mind. Hope you're having a great day. Maggie."", 'time': '16:28 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Maggie Holman': ""Hi Kevin. Thanks for your comments. I'm glad you liked the story. Thanks for the tip about adverbs. Will bear that in mind. Hope you're having a great day. Maggie."", 'time': '16:28 Aug 24, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,dchbt7,Elegance and Enigma: Brenda's Unconventional Love Story,Carol Boeth,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/dchbt7/,/short-story/dchbt7/,Fiction,0,"['Fantasy', 'Fiction', 'Romance']",5 likes,"
Brenda had always been a woman who defied expectations. Her entrance into the Golden Haven Senior Residence was no exception. At 82, she was a vision of timeless beauty, with a body that could rival those half her age. But it wasn't just her physical appearance that turned heads; it was the aura of mystery and confidence that surrounded her.
 
Brenda was like a chameleon, seamlessly transitioning from classic elegance to rebellious biker chic. She could slip into a tailored suit one day and don leather jackets and boots the next, her style choices leaving everyone in awe. The octogenarian men were spellbound, their conversations shifting from the weather to speculations about her past and what made her radiate such undeniable magnetism.
 
As Brenda captivated the men, she inadvertently stirred the calm waters of Golden Haven. Peggy, the charismatic resident known for her charming ways, suddenly found herself in unfamiliar territory. Her once-loyal admirers seemed to be drawn to Brenda's captivating presence. The women once united in their routines and conversations, became divided, their silent glances revealing a mixture of envy and resentment.
 
But beneath the surface of Brenda's beauty and Peggy's allure lay layers of complexity and history. Brenda had been a trailblazer in her youth, a dancer who traveled the world, and a businesswoman who defied conventions. She had loved and lost, faced heartbreak and triumphs, and her journey had shaped her into the woman she was today.
 
Peggy, too, had a story that went beyond her flirtatious exterior. She had been a lawyer, a woman of intellect and charisma until circumstances led her to a different path. Her vibrant personality hid a longing for connection and a fear of loneliness that drove her to seek attention from others.
 
One evening, as the sun painted the sky with shades of orange and pink, Brenda invited Peggy for a walk by the serene pond on the Golden Haven grounds. They sat by the water, their reflections mirrored in the tranquil surface, and Brenda began to speak. She shared stories of her youth, her dreams, and her journey to self-discovery. Peggy, drawn by Brenda's vulnerability, opened up about her own aspirations, her struggles, and the choices that led her to where she was now.
 
Their conversation marked a turning point. The walls that had separated them began to crumble, and a tentative friendship emerged. As they shared their experiences, they discovered that they were more alike than they had realized. Both had lived lives that defied expectations and had faced challenges that had shaped them.
 
Time passed, and one sunny afternoon, a charismatic figure entered Golden Haven. West, a 67-year-old billionaire philanthropist, was visiting the residence as part of a charity initiative. When his eyes met Brenda's, something shifted in the air. They were drawn to each other with an intensity that surprised them both. West, usually composed and reserved, found himself captivated by Brenda's charm, and Brenda, in turn, felt a connection that transcended words.
 
Within three weeks, plans were in motion for a grand wedding at the prestigious Ranchman Club. The residents of Golden Haven were invited, and excitement filled the air. The news of Brenda, the stunning octogenarian, capturing the heart of a billionaire spread like wildfire, and speculation was rife.
 
The wedding day arrived, a beautiful blend of elegance and enchantment. The Ranchman Club was adorned with flowers and soft lighting, creating a magical atmosphere. Brenda, radiant in an exquisite gown, walked down the aisle towards West, who looked at her with an expression of awe and admiration.
 
The ceremony was heartfelt, a testament to the genuine connection Brenda and West had formed in a short span of time. As they exchanged vows, their words resonated with those who witnessed their union, reminding them that love had no age limit.
 
The reception that followed was a celebration of love, life, and the unexpected. Brenda and Peggy, once seen as rivals, shared a dance and a laugh, showcasing the power of friendship and understanding. The residents of Golden Haven reveled in the joy of the evening, as Brenda and West danced, laughed, and embraced the beginning of a new chapter.
 
Amidst the festivities, West took the stage, his eyes fixed on Brenda. He spoke of their whirlwind romance, of the connection that had transcended age and expectations. With a smile, he announced a surprise gift for Brenda, a gesture that left everyone in awe. A billion-dollar contribution to her foundation, supporting causes she deeply cared about.
 
As the night ended, Brenda and West stole a moment away from the crowd. Under the starlit sky, they embraced their love a testament to the beauty of unexpected connections and the power of living life to the fullest.
 
Brenda's journey had been one of defying norms, embracing her true self, and finding love in the most unexpected of places. Her story, and the grand wedding that had united her with West, would forever be etched in the hearts of those who had witnessed it, reminding them that life's most remarkable moments often came when you least expected them. 
 
As days turned into nights and nights into days, Brenda tried to capture it all - not just with her camera but within the confines of her heart. She wrote in her journal, detailing every emotion, every sight, every sound, hoping that words would do justice to her experience.
 
As the journey neared its end, Brenda realized that while she couldn't truly bottle up the moments, the memories she had created were eternal. They were imprinted on her soul, and she could revisit them whenever she wished.
 
The journey might have been temporal, but its impact was everlasting. It wasn't just a trip; it was a transformation. As she headed home, she knew she was not the same Brenda who had set out. She was richer in experience, fuller in heart, and infinitely grateful for the gift of such a beautiful voyage.
 
And while she couldn't physically bottle those moments, she had achieved something far more precious. She had bottled them in her heart, and there they would remain, timeless and radiant, ready to be relieved whenever she closed her eyes and let her mind wander.
","August 19, 2023 00:15","[[{'Carol Boeth': ""The story overall paints a picture of the richness of human experiences, the unexpected twists life can take, and the profound connections we make along the way. It's a celebration of life in all its unpredictability, challenges, joys, and lessons."", 'time': '11:11 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,2rwwyw,Mikhail Orlov ,Gabriella Schubert,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/2rwwyw/,/short-story/2rwwyw/,Fiction,0,['Fiction'],4 likes,"
Upon 21st avenue, along the many houses, right at the end, situated a bustling tiny café. Regardless of it being in a forgettable corner in town, it sits beaming with people from opening time till the sunset over 21st avenue. It was deemed a local attraction with everyone passing the information of this hidden, miniature café onto newcomers and visitors of the area. Of course the staff had their regular customers; Mrs. Thompson, the soccer club boys, a businessman with a top hat. The most memorable customer was Mikhail Orlov. He was a man in his mid-80s who brought a beam of light with him wherever he went. He entered every morning at 8am on the dot, welcoming everyone inside. Walking over to his table wobbling and shakily, the staff were on standby; he had tripped once in the past scaring the life out of everyone. He would order a brewed pot of streaming hot black tea with the sugar and milk on the side; sometimes a chocolate biscuit if he was feeling cheeky. It became a habit for the daily newspaper to be placed on the table whilst he was ordering by the staff. Everyone knew him and his routine, merrily adding it into there. With the appearance of new employees, there was always an informal briefing about Mr. Orlov. Sitting in a cozy comfort corner until 11am sat Mr. Orlov. Drinking his velvet tea, reading about the latest scandal, people watching. 
 
No one knew much about Mr. Orlov. To begin with, he didn't speak English well enough for you to communicate with. He immigrated from an Ex-Soviet country however, no one really knew which one. His son helped him retire along with his wife of 40 years in this small town. His son believed “it was between then the busy, booming city” for his old, weak and failing parents. The town was frequent with friendly faces and help readily available. It had a small nursing unit that wasn't the most equipped, however, there was a bigger hospital with further resources 45 mins away if needed in an emergency. Mr. and Mrs. Orlov were safe within the town; that's all that mattered to their eldest son. Mrs. Orlov passed away almost 2 years ago now and that's when he began coming. Many were sympathetic to the grieving man. He knew nothing  about living without his wife. 
 
Many did not know the life he had. Not the experiences he had or the impacts that came about with his actions. Not due to his secrecy but from the lack of resources to communicate. He had lived under the control of Stalin and the USSR in Moscow in the late 1940s. Moscow wasn't a pretty place following the Second World War which he was born into. His father suffered severe trauma from fighting within the wars and as a consequence home life wasn't pretty. At 16 Mikhail decided to run away further  East to try to escape the form of negatives of the internal and external world. He had only made it into Hungary before he was in turmoil again. Ironically he hadn't maneuvered his way out of communist regime and became the victim of the Iron Curtain. He knew nothing of the other countries under the iron block, he was told they all thrived, which wasn't the case. He would further protest in acts such as the Prague Spring with the local Hungarians. He always had a knack for evading the police, he was like a slimy frog, always jumping from their hands. He made a difference in protesting against the USSRs control of Eastern Europe, conveying popular opinion of the civilians. He knew he could not stay within the east as Khrushchev's anger fueled from his failures of not being able to preserve the empire. 
 
London. He had finally found it. The place of opportunities and an overall available better life. He struggled to adapt to this new Western world. He found work within a factory. The classic story of any immigrant that tried seeking asylum and ending up in a “better” country. Minimum wage for his maximum effort; he never felt it was right but accepted these hands of fate. He would meet his future wife on the assembly line at the age of 25. He was amazed by the beauty she possessed. Her golden hair flowed like a river, her eyes as pretty as sapphires, her smile that lit up the room. She was the owner's daughter, the owner of all shoe factories for miles. Their love story was also a highlight they would incorporate in conversation. Mikhail spent days, months, years trying to pursue Marija into being with him. His soul was attached to being within her presence but her father was not one to be pursued. There were many obstacles Mikhail had to give all of himself in order to overcome. It was worth it in everyone's eyes. Marija would say "" our souls were meant to be together, through seas and terrain""; it ,of course, sounded better in their native dialect. Marija dreamed of the bouncing of children in her house and Mikhail was prepared to give her the world, the universe, regardless of his disagreeing perspectives. Then began the entrance of a beautiful baby after another. Sometimes Marija would have troubles during and after her pregnancies. This put loopholes within their marriage, gaps they would never show their children. They tried to be the best parents, nurturing, caring, loving, nourishing. They tried. As a father, Mikhail battled with the idea he couldn't give his children the highest quality of opportunities there was to offer in the world. He would never tell Marija but he felt like less of a man because of it. Sometimes he'd work past the legal limit, falsifying documents to have multiple jobs. Sometimes he felt like a zombie or as if he's in an outer body experience. He'd do anything for his 5 children, anything.
 
Mikhail was a very wise and intelligent man, however his academics didn't replicate that. He struggled to get through high-school, regardless of the number of hours he put in. That's why learning English was a sore point for him. He was ashamed that he couldn't get a high level of education; the world needs your effort and achievements to be written on paper to be accepted in this new world. In any spare time he had, which was barely any, he’d try to read books he found in his native language in the local library. Immigrating to another country under the dome regime as his motherland was hard enough for him let alone England: a language being thrown around he could not unscramble, ways of societal differences and the racism he would face daily. He could never understand how someone could discriminate based on something that wasn't in anyone's control. 
 
For a while after his wife's death he believed he had not made a name for himself or that his life had any actual significance, that he was just like every other average man that lived. No purpose; what was the purpose of him beginning on  this earth to begin with? With consumable hours now facing him with the loss of the other part of his soul he was able to reflect on his life. This is an activity he would regularly part in while in the tiny café, with the world around him not knowing his stories. He had undoubtably racked up some unique experiences throughout his life. Maybe he didn't have the same impact as someone like Martin Luther King Jr. had, but he had made an impact on the life his children had. Have given them the world, good manners and all the love one could ask for. He didn't give them the life he had and that was enough to be proud of. 
 
","August 19, 2023 02:18",[]
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,hkks4p,Black Christmas,Len Rely,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/hkks4p/,/short-story/hkks4p/,Fiction,0,"['Romance', 'Christmas']",4 likes,"
The day Brianne encountered the strange, handsome man would have been as boring as Christmas in July. Griffith Bros. had forced the storefronts across the street out of business, and then bought up all their merchandise for a fraction of its value, so now there was a rush of people bigger than Black Friday buying up everything on the shelves. Come to think of it, there were more black trench coats and black scarves and black hats than anything else and it wasn’t even December, doing the Griffiths the favor of clearing the space for them as people rushed to grab whatever they could without a gift wrap in sight. It seemed like the opposite of a holiday, rewarding slick business moves made behind closed doors.Brianne was unlike the thin and glamorous girls usually hired by Mr. Griffith and his sons. She had hair that was perpetually messy, no bust to speak of and a fat waist whose outline could be seen no matter what she was wearing. She had tenure but not superiority. She had spilled coffee all over her Christmas sweater already.Brianne was so distracted as she crossed the street a speeding vehicle nearly ran her down, but she was pulled back at the last moment by an athletic, narrow-waisted man wearing a black one-piece outfit that looked like what Tom Cruise would wear to break into a supercomputer. As he pulled her to safety he spun around like Brian Boitano and released her arm with a flourish.“I’m sorry but in another moment I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of knowing you.” his kind words were as out-of-place as his movements. She wasn’t sure if his face was more like Mark Wahlberg’s or Matt Damon’s.“I’m from corporate.” he extended a gloved hand and again seemed to slide toward her like a dancer.“I’ve never met anyone from corporate before.” Brianne admitted bashfully. “I’ve been here twelve years and I’ve only known the franchise to do whatever it wants.”“Actually I’m here by my own choice. I’m a Level 4 and we can do that.” he used words that meant nothing to her. “Maybe it’s time for a change?”The truth was she hadn’t heard the word “corporate” in so long she was barely aware it existed. It was widely known the Griffiths cooked their books, in fact she couldn’t recall the last time someone had questioned them.“Did you say you’ve been here twelve years?” the man asked. “I’m surprised you’re not in charge of marketing by now. You should be spokeswoman as pretty as you are.”“Say what…” her mouth started to hang open. “Is there something you want from me?”“No but I’d like your hard work to pay off in some kind of benefits package.” he said frankly. “I’d think employee retention would be just common sense in any business. And another thing, you’re the only one wearing a Christmas sweater which tells me something about you. You should be a model for the advertising division.”“Stop, you’re just saying that.” she raised a hand to her reddening face. “Especially since the girls they hire seasonally are actual models, not me.”“I think you meant to say they’re molls.” he smirked. “Can you imagine a Christmas card with one of them sitting by the fire?”A chuckle escaped her. Now was the moment she expected him to name what he wanted, but he simply introduced himself and left her to speak with the Griffith boys. “I’m J------ by the way.” a car horn blared at the moment he said his name.She watched him sashay through the crowd like some kind of holiday elf and yet no one seemed to notice him. Then as her eyes followed him she heard something else out-of-place. A woman’s voice said “She’s stopped breathing. Can you hear me?”. Brianne turned around and not only was no one there, it was something none of the shoppers could conceivably have said.Mr. Griffith and his sons were at the curb carrying boxes and beckoning her to hurry up as they always did. They always looked like they had been cut out of a black-and-white casino movie, that is if the movie had no plot, like Goodfellas if Joe Pesci and Robert de Niro just acted like their caricatures for no reason. Yes that’s what they were, a mafia of idiots.“Hey Bree we don’t need to be giving out receipts!” the fatter one called out and tossed a wad of them over his shoulder into the snow.“That’s not good business.” the mystery man who had just saved her life bent down and picked it up as shamelessly as they had spoken. “Just because they’re pre-holiday shoppers doesn’t mean they receive any less joy from their purchases. In fact I think this whole operation raises questions, I know it was a profitable acquisition but what kind of example are we setting here?”The thug turned around in his black trench coat and looked down at him.“Look pal, I don’t know who you think you are...”Suddenly the man kneed him in the groin, causing him to lose the parcel he was carrying and in a combination move twisted his thumb around to the back of his hand and forced his arm behind his back. It was like watching Kevin Costner manipulate a guy twice his size in the movie The Bodyguard.“Nobody pushes around me or my boys…” Mr. Griffith started to say as he and the other one dropped their boxes and went straight after him. Then Brianne watched him do a series of mises-en-scenes, twirling past them so quickly it looked like they were moving in slow-motion. He seized the brother’s hand and poked him in the eyes with his own fingers, then brought his arm like an iron bar across his stomach and pushed Mr. Griffith forward causing them to barrel into each other. All three were hunkered down in the snow wincing, and again no one in the crowd seemed to notice.“As I was saying, deals that profit from the destruction of another business don’t show a very neighborly spirit.” he said calmly, not missing a beat. “The best you can hope for is being top dog in a pack of wolves.”Mr. Griffith looked up at him with a pained expression and said “Who are you to tell me how to run my business?”Brianne finally crossed the street after they were finished. No one had ever stood up for her before. This man whatever his name was, J-something or J-rod or Mr. J passed by her again with a grin that was simply for doing a job well-done. She tried to get a better look at him and he seemed older or perhaps his face simply had a lot of character to it.When she reached her humiliated employers to help them out, the younger brother looked up at her and said something very strange to her. “I’m sorry I never really knew you when you were living.”-Brianne showed up for work early in the morning a changed woman, her hair permed and wearing lipstick and a red blouse under a black worksuit that belted around the middle hoping to see her new boss Mr. J (or perhaps it was just “Jay”), although she had no reason to expect he would still be there. She had a multitude of questions, not the least of which was that her last encounter with him and this moment seemed to blend right into each other.She stepped into the vacant store across the shopping center, its interior stripped of all merchandise and shelving and painted black. To her surprise he was in there by himself setting up rotating stands of holiday cards meant to look like Christmas trees, gliding effortlessly from one stand to another.“I didn’t know we were planning to use this space ourselves.” she said in wonder.“I foresee it being our main customer service center, if you can imagine everything that’s dark and cold being light and full of cheer.” he stopped to look at her and she realized he wasn’t an older man as she had thought but a very young man, and he seemed surprised right back at her.“You’ve changed your appearance.” he said.“Yes, what do you think?” she asked, holding her breath.“I think you look like management material.” he gave a very gentlemanly answer. “But I’m curious about something.”“Yeah I’m curious about some things myself.” she breathed a sigh of relief.“Then you go first.” he replied cordially.“Well the way you handled those guys… I mean how does a corporate exec even know how to do that?”“Simple, in their world the threat of violence is supposed to build street credentials, but martial arts makes that threat meaningless.” he answered. “It destroys boasting which really is all they do, and anyone can learn it which destroys preconceptions. It’s like bringing a dictionary to a spelling bee. Plus I was aware that things have become this way and that you’ve never been rewarded for your tenure.”This last part surprised her more than anything else.“But how are you allowed… I mean how do you get away with it?”“Ah, that’s not so easy to answer.” he put a hand to his chin in thought. “I could say I serve a higher authority and the rules as you know them have changed. Was that your only question?”“No, I’d also like to know why you think so highly of me.” she looked down at her shoes. “Or were you just being a gentleman?”“Absolutely not.” he took offense. “There is a serious staffing problem here where less qualified girls are being hired for their appearance, which is what I don’t understand. I mean you’re much more attractive, I didn’t want you to try to be like them.”Brianne was confused.“What about me do you find attractive?” she asked curiously.“I really shouldn’t say.” his face turned pink and he gave a congenial grin.“You can tell me.” she seriously wanted to know. “I can’t imagine what it could be.”“I’d think it would speak for itself.” he stepped closer to her face, reaching up and very lightly brushing a stray hair aside. “Where I come from every woman is like you. I keep thinking about yesterday when you spilled coffee on yourself and then stumbled outside and your stomach came out for a second. I’m guessing it hasn’t seen the Sun in a while...”Brianne covered her mouth to conceal a laugh that was like a whinny.“It was that moment that inspired me to take this assignment.” he continued. “I appointed myself, do you understand? I was certainly not being a gentleman.”He looked into her eyes with a sincerity mixed with humility that was very… masculine.“Well I can easily go back to the way I was before.” she took off her jacket with a smirk. “All I have to do is go to bed and wake up in the morning.”“No don’t go to sleep!” he blurted out with concern, then recollected himself. “I mean you look fine the way you are now.”Brianne hung up her jacket on a hat rack, then took off the belt that was holding in her midriff and let out her blouse for a more comfortable look. Then she took his outstretched hand and held it in her own.“Have you ever imagined you’re living in a world where you’re the only real person?” he asked her quietly.Suddenly they were interrupted by the sound of blaring sirens out front. The Griffith brothers were standing outside the garish windows with a couple of bandaged hands, accompanied by their father and the police. The blinding light through the plate glass was so cold and bright it looked like it was about to consume the room. Mr. Griffith held a megaphone up to his mouth.“I know you can hear me in there!” he shouted. “Squeeze my hand if you understand!”“Get behind me.” J stepped in front of her, protecting her with his body. “There are so many of them this isn’t going to be pleasant.”“I don’t want you to fight them.” Brianne put her hand on his shoulder and he seemed to melt at her touch.“Very well, then we’ll sneak out the back.” he led her by the hand through the back of the store to an emergency exit, and she followed him out eagerly.-Brianne and the mysterious Mr. J spent the evening in his apartment where they would make love the entire night. The risky business game they were playing made it the most exciting and dangerous thing she had ever done. He assured her no one could possibly find them. The small space was cluttered with antiques and crystal, gilded books, miniature dollhouses and dioramas of his travels, stories she would never know, all of it collecting dust because of how little time he spent there.“What if someone came in and discovered us like this?” Brianne said playfully, tossing her blouse aside as she kneeled on the bed, his hands moving up and down her body. Then she lie down on her back so he could crawl over her, his muscles were the most taut thing she had ever felt against her, his hands moving up to stroke her face.“Well then they would see a naked lady…” his lips touched every part of her from her mouth down to her soft stomach giving her a fit of giggles, wriggling as she did a little victory dance underneath him.When his face turned upwards again she saw the eyes of the most serious lover she would ever know. He did everything as if he was conducting a symphony, a desire she wanted to understand.When they were finished it was morning and multiple pages of Brianne’s life had been turned. Her eyes stared openly across the pillow. Her lover was standing at the foot of the bed looking into a gilded mirror, his thoughts miles away. In his reflection she could see lines on his face like the ghost from A Christmas Carol that lives for just one day.Brianne wrapped the patchwork quilt around herself and got up to join him. He turned to look at her and she placed her hand on his face.“There’s no way we can go back to work is there?” she asked him.“There is, but we have to move farther away from reality.” he replied.“I don’t know what that means. Promise you will stay with me?” she pleaded.“As you wish.” he kissed her lightly on the cheek.-It seemed like a year had passed; Brianne was manning the front desk of the brightest, most luxurious sales floor she had ever seen, a manager’s pin on her sweater. The display stands looked like glittering snow-covered mountain peaks adorned with gold tinsel as sunlight found every corner of the store. An employee she had hired herself was wearing a green elf hat with a bell on it as she wiped the glass counter.“Tell me about Mr. J, the man who made all this happen?” she asked Brianne curiously.“Oh he’s… he’s undescribable.” she said thoughtfully. Then it seemed to her she hadn’t touched base with him in a long time.Brianne took the elevator to the top floor of the sales tower. She entered a gleaming, spacious office with a wall-to-wall desk. The armchair swiveled around and there he was, an unbelievably old man with a cane.“I’m so sorry I made you keep your promise.” she rushed to embrace him, a tear falling down her cheek. “You may go if you like.”“It’s been a pleasure sharing this dream with you.” he said in a raspy voice, creaking like an old door as he stood up to peer out the windows. “There’s something you should know. There are forces of nature out there against which you and I are powerless…”The room started to vibrate as if an earthquake was building, sales trophies rattling on their shelves. Brianne helped Mr. J to the elevator, returning to the ground floor and out the main doors to see what it was.The beautiful Winter landscape was shaking violently, the land undulating in the distance like waves on the sea moving toward them. Mr. J hobbled forward and shouted “Back!”, striking the ground with his stick and immediately the rumbling ceased and everything was still. The sales tower was surrounded by rolling marshmallow hillsides and tall, snowy conifers decked with golden lights like the steeple in the center of a snow globe.“What was that?” Brianne demanded.The old man turned around regretfully and looked at her.“A force of nature everyone must face, I won’t say its name.” he answered her. “I have to go now and find a way to deal with it. I’ll be back in the morning, fresh as a daisy.”Brianne rushed forward and embraced him tightly.“You’re a perfect person.” she said tearfully, kissing him on the nose.“So are you.” he replied. “I haven’t run out of ideas to keep this dream alive, and we will succeed!”He raised his fist as if he’d found some new energy. Brianne kissed him, and he walked off into the sunrise.
","August 19, 2023 03:27",[]
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,lzoae3,A Real Head Turner ,Georgia Blair,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/lzoae3/,/short-story/lzoae3/,Fiction,0,['Fiction'],4 likes,"
At 82, Miss Callie Sue Alderwhite saw no value in wasting time to make up her mind; if she was going to do it, she needed to get on with it. Still, she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it.      
 
 The years had faded her once glowing skin to the brittle texture of fine old notepaper, like the last few sheets in the stationery box she kept on her nightstand. The pink peony-patterned box was her hiding place for a few special treasures: some beauty creams and cosmetics, a whisky flask, and the gold bangle bracelet she slid onto her arm.      
 
 I can still turn heads, she assured herself, tucking wispy white curls behind her ears to show off gold hoop earrings she wore the year she was named first alternate in the Miss Mississippi Pageant.   
 
 As Callie Sue stepped out of her room at Serenity Grove Assisted Living, the tiresome Horace Gatze rolled up in his wheelchair. What bad timing! Callie Sue muttered a word Miss Mississippi contestants did not say aloud – at least not in public. Not in her day. 
 
 Callie Sue had hoped to avoid him, but she’d dallied too long to carefully secure the ribbon on her stationery box after fetching the tube of special lipstick it held. Alas, some things were necessary. A girl never knew when she might need her Pink Peony Express lipstick. 
 
 “Hello, beautiful,” Horace said. “Want to have dinner?” 
 
 He reeked of Artemis and looked a few whiskers shy of a full shave. When he used his tongue to wiggle his loose front tooth lasciviously, Callie Sue winced. Had the man no shame? 
 
 One swift kick would send Horace rolling backward down the hall, she mused – then remembered she was wearing pink nylon slippers. Kicking anything right now was not a good idea.  
 
 In the years after the pageant, Callie Sue had rarely been out of stiletto heels. She danced, ran, and took the stairs in her heels. Her career had placed her in some precarious situations – and knowing those sharp points on her heels could gouge out eyes in a real emergency made all the heel pain worth it.  
 
 Callie Sue missed her heels.     
 
 “So sorry,” she told Horace, shrugging and gesturing to her ear. “I don’t think this hearing aid is working.”
 
 Horace seemed not to care whether she heard him. He chattered non-stop down the long hallway as they followed the aroma of baked apples and roasted pork into the bright, high-ceilinged dining hall. 
 
 There was little that was serene about evening meals at Serenity Grove; the clatter of forks and conversations and loud background music gave it all a slightly desperate undertone, as if each night might be the last party. It was easy enough for one’s mind to skirt that territory, with a few of the more heavily medicated residents snoring or drooling through dinner. Others laughed a little too gaily. The ladies patted their thinning white hair and politely looked past the robes and pajamas and slippers worn to dinner. Callie Sue hated the dinner hour here; she often felt the walls closing in on her. 
 
 For just a minute, she let herself think about after. Warm sunshine, a balmy breeze and a white sandy beach. How long had it been since she had relaxed with the soothing sounds of the surf and a good book? What was she waiting on? She was doing it this time, with or without Bill.   
 
 The music was louder than usual tonight. Calliope music, of all things, like a carnival. For the first time in years, Callie Sue thought briefly of the stuffed giraffe Bill had won for her at a carnival when they first began working together. He’d recruited her backstage at the beauty pageant, after she’d aced the evening gown competition and the interview with the judges. “You’re quite the head turner,” Bill had said. “And a smart one, too. We should talk.”
 
 Horace was talking to her now, across the white tablecloth that separated them. Nothing new there. The man seemed never to stop talking, and he talked whether or not she replied. 
 
 “…and you may want to get yourself a new parka, too,” Horace was saying. Where did he think they were they going together? Skiing? At their age? Ridiculous! And had he even asked her, or was he just prattling on again, taking it for granted that she’d love to join him at some snowy resort? 
 
 She noticed with some dismay that Horace was drooling. A thin stream of saliva slithered down his chin and dripped onto his shirt. Callie Sue blinked and tried to clear her head. This place was terrifying. She needed to get out.         
 
 “And the views! My God!” Horace said. “Did I tell you there’s this quaint little restaurant in the snowy mountains that -- “ He broke off and took the napkin Callie Sue suddenly thrust across the table at him. “Thanks, beautiful!”  
 
 Callie Sue plowed her mashed potatoes with her fork and let the calliope music drown his next words.
 
 “I’m done with this,” she said, suddenly. Horace looked surprised when she pushed back her chair and headed for the dessert table.  
 
 ***
 
 “Miss Callie Sue,” said a gravelly voice beside her while she was eying apple pie and banana pudding – anything but the godawful creamy lime Jello this place served night after night. “So good to see you again.” 
 
 Callie Sue tilted her head, giving Carlos Gallardo her brightest smile. “What a pleasure,” she drawled. “I was just thinking how much I enjoyed our last conversation.” 
 
 And she had, she realized. Unlike most of the gentlemen around her – poor Horace, for example -- Gallardo was still a strikingly handsome man. Age had bleached his thick, wavy hair to a sea of white, and shortened his right leg so that he walked with an expensive cane, but he was still almost a head taller than Callie Sue. Moreover, he was an excellent listener. He stooped slightly to hear her when she linked her arm in his and lowered her voice to invite him to her room for a nightcap.  
 
 Horace’s watchful gaze burned her peripheral vision as she and Gallardo left the dining hall together.  
 
 ***
 
 The pink ribbon was still tied in the tell-tale loop on her stationery box, which meant no one had rummaged through her things. Callie Sue pulled out a small, silver flask of whiskey and held it aloft.
 
 “You won’t tell on me for this, will you?” she teased. 
 
  Gallardo grinned. “Not since you’re sharing.”
 
 Callie Sue poured the amber whiskey slowly into two glasses, positioning herself carefully between the nightstand and the loveseat where Gallardo sat. She made certain to twist the tube of Pink Peony Express so that its secret vial was hidden and dropped it back into the stationery box before she joined Gallardo in the cozy seating corner of her room.  
 
 They sipped slowly, in companionable silence, savoring the pungent whiskey. How nice it was to be in the company of a man who did not fill the rooms with empty words. Callie Sue enjoyed the slow burn of the whiskey, finding it much preferable to lime Jello. Gallardo, however, seemed distracted. He shifted this way and that, twisting on the loveseat. His handsome face flushed, then paled.       
 
 “I almost forgot,” Callie Sue said, after a time. “Your business partner sends his regards.” 
 
  Gallardo coughed and tugged at his collar. “What’s that?”
 
 “My colleague and I spoke to him recently,” Callie Sue said. “He’s very sorry to learn about your heart attack. Evidently, it’s been a bit too long coming.” 
 
 Sweat beaded Gallardo’s forehead, and he seemed to gasp for air. His eyes looked wild and fierce to Callie Sue. Then he surprised her by lumbering to his feet and lunging toward her! 
 
 In an instant, Callie Sue was on him. Sure, she’d lost some arm strength, but Gallardo was weak now, and these moves were familiar to her. Her elbow locked in position for a lethal snap, the same maneuver she’d had to use quite a few times since Bill showed up at the pageant and wooed her to this line of work.   
 
 “You’re perfect,” Bill had told her that night at the carnival, handing her the giraffe after the shooting game. “Who would suspect a beauty queen?” How handsome she had found Bill in the colorful lights of the midway! Handsome and slightly dangerous. An alluring combination – at least until time and familiarity peeled away the exterior layers and exposed character. Even the most intriguing of men eventually became – well, feeble. She’d had a good look at the ravages of mortality, these past few weeks at Serenity Grove. 
 
 She thought of poor Horace, dribbling on himself at dinner, talking about some snowy mountain ski resort, so certain she would be eager to join him that he’d never bothered to ask whether she had the slightest interest in going there. She thought of Bill, young and beautiful and dangerous, waiting on her answer that night at the carnival.  Or had he waited? She couldn’t actually remember that. She could only recall what he had said next, his hand gently touching the small of her back as he guided her down the midway: “If you’re going to put your neck on the line, you’ll need to learn a few tricks – like how to really turn heads.” 
 
 He'd moved so fast, startling her. A twist of the neck. A quick snap. Callie Sue had a vivid memory of the stuffed giraffe head dangling. 
 
 Gallardo was no giraffe. He wobbled in her arms, his legs collapsing beneath him, and Callie Sue felt relief that she needed to do nothing more. A snapped neck would pose questions at Serenity Grove, but an apparent heart attack would lift no eyebrows. 
 
 She lowered Gallardo gently to the loveseat and lifted her gold bracelet to her lips. “It’s done,” she said.
 
 “On my way,” Bill’s voice came from the earpiece inside her gold earring. He was at her door in seconds, grinning up from the wheelchair, wriggling that infernal loose tooth, the one with the hidden comms device. At least he hadn’t short-circuited the thing with all his fake drooling, Callie Sue thought, feeling a fresh wave of annoyance. 
 
 “Hello, beautiful,” he said, and stood. Together, Callie Sue and Bill transferred the unconscious Gallardo into the empty wheelchair.
 
 “I’ll get him back to his room,” Bill said. “Decent work, you old head turner.”
 
 He slipped out of his robe and Callie Sue saw he was wearing scrubs beneath. He looked younger, standing upright in the scrubs, more like a nurse now, and less like a resident. But she noticed the bare spots on top of his head, the thin crest of hair that remained, and the way he favored his arthritic knee. Somehow it was still Horace she saw smiling at her -- Horace, with his wild whiskers, Horace, who never listened to her. Horace, who was just the older, stripped-down version of the man who had spent the past sixty years telling her what to do. Had he ever asked her what she wanted?  
 
 “Bill?” she asked, and he paused at the door, looking back at her. “I’ve been thinking about the beach. Something about this job, something about being here… I don’t know. I think I need a break, after this one.”
 
 “Didn’t you hear what I said tonight, at dinner, about our next job? The restaurant owner in the mountains? I knew you weren’t listening. You can relax in the mountains. The ski resort is beautiful. You'll love it.""
 
 Callie Sue made up her mind. She was not getting any younger. It was time to get on with it.     
 
 “Come back for a nightcap, and you can tell me again,” she said, tapping her stationery box with one pink polished nail. She’d just need to reapply a little lipstick while he was gone. 
 
 
 
","August 18, 2023 13:16","[[{'Soleil Tron': 'Very well done! This is a fantastic story! I feel like I can see and smell the nursing home where your story takes place. The ending is perfect; Callie Sue is almost done except for one last problem.', 'time': '15:18 Aug 19, 2023', 'points': '1'}, [{'Georgia Blair': 'Thank you, Soleil Tron! <3', 'time': '14:04 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}]], [{'Georgia Blair': 'Thank you, Soleil Tron! <3', 'time': '14:04 Aug 21, 2023', 'points': '1'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,0u976f,Old Justice/New World,Danyelle Mustafa,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0u976f/,/short-story/0u976f/,Fiction,0,"['American', 'Fiction']",4 likes,"
“Grands! Hi! It's Cody, here to take you to the doctor. Ready?” Cody rushes into his grandma’s house yelling to her and talking on the phone. Slamming the door, he continues his phone conversation. “Yeah, Saturday night is perfect. I have a way to get into the library and no one will be even thinking about the place but us. We will have plenty of time to get rid of what doesn’t deserve to be there with no interference. They will never know what happened… cameras? Why would a library have cameras? Who do you think is stealing books, stupid? … Look man, it’s too late to back out now… This fight will never end! It’s men like you, cowards, that treason describes…You either fight for this country or become part of the problem… What? Are you some lefty woke punk now? Your job, as an American, is to defend our American ways. That starts with the children... They don’t need the stuff they are being taught in the books on that list and that’s why we are burning them up on Saturday night. Are you a protector of the children or are you one of the groomers? …Don’t be making up excuses for your cowardice now Blake! Look, figure out what side of history you plan to be on, the righteous or the wrong. I’m at my Grannies now. Call me back when you get your nuts back in their sack.”
Cody plopped onto the couch as his grandma was helped from the back of the house by her home health aide, Maricel. “Here we are Mrs. Stuart. Right into your coat to leave,
 or do you need a rest?” Ginnie Stuart is slight of build. Osteoporosis has bent her gracefully but at 84 she is still strong of mind, if weak of body. “No Maricel. Cody is on time today so he can help me from here. Besides, I want to talk a spell with my grandson.” 
“Very well, Mrs. Stuart. Good afternoon Mr. Stuart.” 
“Yeah.” Cody says as he looks anywhere but at Maricel. As though she’d been physically struck by his single word lack of a greeting, she turned back to her charge. 
“Mrs. Stuart, I will go now then. Are you still certain you want to cancel the rest of my time today? You have me until 9pm 5 days a week. It’s not yet 2.” 
“I’m sure. My daughter will be here tonight. I have Cody this afternoon, and his aunt tonight. I will be fine but fetch my walker before you go to enjoy the afternoon off.” Maricel returns to the back of the small house as Ginnie focuses on her grandson. “Cody, how are you boy? Haven’t seen you in almost a month.” Maricel comes back with the walker and tries to hand it to Cody. He stares at her without taking it. She nervously puts it against the wall while looking back at him. “Have a good day, Mari.” The women smile as Maricel nods and leaves. “Boy, what was that?”
“I am not a boy Grands. Didn’t we talk last month about you getting rid of the gook? Thought it would be gone by now.”
“Cody! What the hell, BOY?!? That is the best home nurse I’ve had. SHE will stay as long as SHE is willing. You will stop being so rude! What is wrong with you? So, she is Filipino. And what? SHE did not call you a cracker or a thing, so you button up that foul language right now!” 
“SHE is taking good jobs from real Americans. A white person would take better care of you, Grands.”
“She was born in Boston and has taken a mediocre job to deal with an old woman and her insulting grandson. Heaven help her.”
“Grandma, I don’t want to fight. You will be better off with someone…blonder. Should we head out?”
“I don’t think Mari’s hair color is your problem, Cody. We don’t have to leave just yet, the appointment isn’t for another hour. Let’s catch up. What did I hear you planning when you got here? Having a party at the library? That would be nice.”
“Ummm…not a party Grands. I am planning to end the assault on the minds of our youth by the library.” Ginnie considers his words a moment then shrugs her shoulders. “Okay, there are a bunch of books in the libraries that promote homosexuality, premarital sex, trans crap, and that say us White people deserve to be punished just for being White. We have gotten a lot of them out of the schools, but the school bans mean nothing at the public libraries. We want to correct the problem by taking them out ourselves. Understand?”
Ginnie, mouth agape, stares at her grandson. Eventually she finds her words. “Who is ‘we’? Which books? What do you mean by ‘taking them out’ - to do what with?”
“Last year I joined the local branch of the Patriot Front. We thought we’d just burn them in the parking lot. That’s what a church in Tennessee did with banned books. If we tossed them, some ‘woke leftist’ would just take them back to the library.”
“Burn them?!? You want to burn books?!? My daddy fought in WW2 and my grandson wants to burn books! Heaven help me, my progeny goes the way of Hitler! What’s next? You guys planning to purge all the non-whites from the country?”
“No, but it would be real nice if you got the gook out of your house, like I told you to.”
“You do not tell me to do anything. I refused your suggestion. This is crazy Cody. Stop it before you get into trouble.”
“There won't be any trouble. History will thank us for standing up for the American way! Look, I have a list of 50 books that are harming our children. Read this and you will see, it's a bunch of filthy trash.” He produces a tattered sheet from his pocket and Ginnie reads, getting more and more irate the further down the list she gets.
“Cody, no. This is not a list of filth. Have you read any of these?”
“Why would I read the filth? Tucker Carlson agrees with this list. Sean Hannity agrees with this list. Ben Shapiro agrees with this list.”
“Well dear, you just listed filth, but this list is not filth. Look, this one, Killing Mr. Griffin, I bought for your dad when he was a kid. This one, The Handmaid's Tale, is a TV show now. Here is Beloved, by one of my favorite authors, Toni Morrison. This one, Sold by Patricia McCormick, while not a favorite, is harmless. It's about a Nepalese girl sold into slavery. Why destroy the life's work of so many Cody, especially on the words of others. Read them yourself then pass judgment.” Cody stands, retrieves the walker perched on the wall and yanks Ginnie from the couch by her arm. “You are hurting me son.”
“Okay. Look Grandma, I am fighting to protect you and my mom from what America is becoming. As a woman, you need to stop questioning me and allow me to complete this mission. You need to heed my warnings and get that girl out of your house. Let her be with her own. Mine will be fine without her. I’m fighting for you woman, and you seem to be on the side of treason.”
“You are not fighting for me. None of that is of me! It’s all just wrong! …You are still hurting me. Let me go. Please.”
Cody did not realize he still had his grandmother by the arm. He did not realize that he was now squeezing that arm out of frustration with her lack of understanding. He is doing this to better America. Why can she not see that? He releases her arm. “Grands, let's go. You will be late to the doctor.”
 
 
 
“Patricia, you don’t understand. He all but dragged me to the car. He scared me. The whole drive he kept telling me to mind my own business or else. Or else! What does that mean? He threatened his own grandmother!” Ginnie and her daughter are sitting in the kitchen. Patricia washes the after-dinner dishes while Ginnie, distraught over Cody’s behavior, has spoken of nothing else all night. 
“Mom…”
“Threatening me over what? His plan to break the laws of decency because Tucker Carlson told him to? Tucker Carlson! What a stupid name - Tucker! Stupid name for a stupid man!”
“Mom…”
“Or better yet Benjamin Shapiro! A Jewish boy perfectly fine with a return to Nazi ideals! What has happened to America? Pat, when did it change…to…THIS?”
“Mom, calm down. Mind your blood pressure. Matt has been complaining about the political changes in Cody for a few years now. Started when he graduated. Now at 23 he’s fully out of pocket. He scares his mom too. Told his daddy that ‘the Blacks need to learn their place and if you can’t see that dad then you are part of the problem.’ Matt called me nearly in tears to ask what he should do. He’s too old to send to a ‘fix my kid camp’ so I had no idea what to tell him.”
Ginnie is flabbergasted. “You two told me none of this!”
“We didn’t want to worry you… I mean…you have so much on your plate Ma. Between the doctor's visits, the osteoporosis, losing dad…”
“So you didn’t tell me because I’m old?!? I was excluded from helping my family make decisions because I’m old. I’m disappointed in both of you. No, all three of you because I must include Cody. My racist, book burning, hot headed grandson Cody!” Patricia tries to talk, presumably to comfort her mother. Ginnie raises a hand for silence, sighs, and begins to comb through her memories. “Patty,” she starts slowly, “I was a very little girl when President Truman desegregated the armed forces. That was 1948. I was still a little girl in ‘54 when the courts decided Brown v/s the Board of Education to desegregate the schools. That was actually 5 different cases they rolled into one. I remember the Little Rock Nine proving the job was not yet done. In ‘55 they murdered Emmit Till and I cried at the pictures in the paper. So much evil. So much pain.”
“Mom…”
“Not done yet. In 1961 I couldn't just watch the evil of my United States anymore. I wanted, I needed, to effect change. Remember the Freedom Riders from your history class? I was there Pat! Your granddad wanted to kill me, but I needed to change my world. 1963’s March on Washington, I was there! 1965’s Bloody Sunday…present. I gave friends lives to see this country change Pat. I gave of myself to see this country change. Remember when you were little, and you used to ask about the scar on my leg? I got that when they attacked us getting on and off the buses as a Freedom Rider. Have you ever noticed the scar on my arm? A glancing blow from a stick on the Edmund Pettus Bridge in ‘65. I bled for the causes I believed in and my grandson…my GRANDSON…would live to undo them. I have failed!”
“Mom, you never told us any of this. Why?”
Laughing, “My mom made me promise I would not. She felt it would ensure my kids went off the rails if you guys knew. She thought she was protecting her grandkids. Funny, as I was unable to protect mine.” Patricia moves to her mother, taking Ginnie’s hands into her own.
“I always knew I had a remarkable mother. I just didn’t know how remarkable. I’m sorry I implied you were too old to be helpful. I have a feeling you are the most helpful of us all and I almost lived my life not knowing it. I’m proud of you Ma.”
“Thank you, Patty, but that's not helping Cody not ruin his life. We have 3 days till his fiasco at the library. I got a criminal record as a ‘negro ally,’ but what he gets for his plan will be so much worse.”
“Ma, I plan to call the police and report it before it happens.”
“Good. That is excellent. But I just got a better idea and I’m going to need your help. Call Matthew too. May as well get his Daddy in on this too.”
 
 
 
Dressed in black, three different groups totaling ten people head to the library from different directions. As Cody’s group crosses onto the library property they see signs for a celebration of Banned Book Week. Apparently, they decided to give away free copies of some of the filth on his list this week. Just as well, now they won’t need to find the crap on the shelves, it should be all in one spot. Good since he wasn’t in a “Dewey Decimal System” mood anyway. 
Cody’s group is in charge of actually breaking in. The second group is prepping the fire area in the parking lot. The third group is in the trees between the building and the parking lot, ready to cart the books out of the building as quickly as possible. It’s all planned. “Ready to make history, guys? Let’s do this.” While doing recon yesterday, Cody unlocked a window near the rear of the building. Just in case they locked it back he also unlocked a restroom window near the same place, but if needed he would just break the glass. Reaching the back of the building he tests his first-choice break in point, and it’s thankfully still unlocked. “Idiots.” He motions to get a boost and gains entry. After helping his buddies inside through the same window, they head for the side door where the bulk of the group waits to carry books out. Crossing the main vestibule Cody notices some of the furniture has been moved. The open reading area is void of seats. What was yesterday a room of twenty or more tables with chairs and several couches is now a single couch shrouded in darkness. 
“I never dreamed I’d need to camp out in the library just to talk with my son.” The sonorous voice of Matthew echoed in the empty room startling the 3 young men as the lights come on. Matthew and Ginnie sit on the couch. “Stay here fellas. Your buddies outside have made new friends so you may as well keep us company here,” says Ginnie.
“Grandma! You called the cops on us! How could you?”
“I did no such thing,” said Ginnie. “Why would I call the cops on my beloved grandbaby? I don’t need the cops when I have so many friends.” From every corner, from behind every bookcase, from down the stairs to the second floor came wave after wave of people. Most walked slowly on canes or walkers. A few were pushed in wheelchairs. Nearly all had signs or wore shirts decrying the practice of burning books. All were dressed head to toe in white. “Son, I fought too hard for all people to have basic human rights for you to become a force of evil in this world.” Standing with the assistance of her walker, she continues. “I love you too much to allow you to walk this path unchallenged. You showed me this week that I was not strong enough to challenge you alone. But I was never alone. The only civil response to your baby fascism is to call it out. We are over a hundred here tonight to call it out.”
“Fascist Grandma? What the heck are you talking about? We aren’t German. We are proud Americans here to help America be the great country it once was again. This is one step in getting it back on track to greatness and keeping it that way through the children, our future. Teach them the right way and they shall not stray.”
“Fascism -a political philosophy, movement, or regime that exalts nation and often race above the individual.”
“Grandma just stop.”
“A government ruled by a dictator who controls the lives of the people in that society and allows no dissent or disagreement.” Matthew chimes in.
From several places in the crowd we hear, “Government by one ruler, a small group, or a single party.” “Authoritarianism!” “Totalitarian!” “Thought suppression!” “Government without the people.” Matthew calls for quiet.
“A government where ideas are killed to control the people,” says Ginnie. “The books you boys want to destroy are mere ideas. What would you have said if Thomas the Tank Engine was banned when you were 7?”
“Thomas didn’t make me hate my own country! Teaching things like slavery was bad does make these kids question America.”
“And what is wrong with questioning? Without questions America would still be a colony, or possibly never ‘discovered’ at all. Questions move society Cody.”
Matt chimes in, “Cody, you were asking questions that led you to this course of action. If being better informed leaves you in the same place, then we can agree to disagree. But before you do something that will forever affect your life, can we look at the answers to your questions together, as a family?”
“Cody,"" said Ginnie, “understand this please, there is no scenario where you get to burn books tonight. I will not…we will not allow it to happen. I can’t protect all the books on your list everywhere, but I can protect the ones here. How many boys are outside son?”
“Seven.”
“Yeah, no burning tonight. Most of us may be old, but we are bold and ready. You won’t attack democracy tonight.”
 
 
 
“If American democracy ceases to move forward as a living force, seeking day and night by peaceful means to better the lot of our citizens, fascism will grow in strength in our land.”
Franklin Roosevelt
 
","August 19, 2023 00:42",[]
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,upj61q,Dance of a Paintbrush,Allison Cho,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/upj61q/,/short-story/upj61q/,Fiction,0,"['Fiction', 'Romance']",3 likes,"
 Jay Beckerman is an eccentric yet boring man. He drinks peptic as a beverage, and from some point in his life, it became the only liquid he drank besides water. Boxes of green little bottles are piled up at the side of the room like an old accolade. Above the boxes, there is a picture of a woman sitting on a stair with gloomy eyes like the green glistening on the glass bottles, yet she is smiling. There is another picture of her on the back side of a tiny postcard on the table. Same smile, but she has red eyes this time. All of those pictures with smiles that are so serene and tragic looming like a sheer mist in the background make me shiver underneath my skin. Jay Beckerman's room is nothing but ordinary. The wallpaper is the color of dull ivory that is whether painted or faded. A small desk of a width that is slightly larger than Jay Beckerman's shoulder, a chair that looks like bone rotting in the sand, and a dark blue rug lying in the living room like an old dog towards the end of its life, they are all waiting for something to happen. The wind blew from the window made of a mild green sash shook the gray fluffs blooming on the rug and sat down on a chair like a soul. Jay Beckerman is sitting at the corner of the room with one hand on his folded knee. The other hand is flipping over the pages of a job posting. As his finger scrutinizes the letters vertically, his fidgety toes are frantically squeezing. He has a sparse beard that is between being neat and odd, and a pair of green snickers that matches the duality. Jay Beckerman was doing quite well after being diagnosed with terminal cancer. A phone rang and in response, Jay Beckerman swore a little mumble in surprise as he pulls his gaunt body up and walked toward the phone. Meanwhile, the phone rings hysterically, turning every bit of silence into broken pieces. “Hello,” As Jay Beckerman answered his phone, I quickly picked up the headset to eavesdrop. Through a buzzing sound, I could hear Jay Beckerman's ghost-like voice. “Jay?” A woman's quivering voice responded. “Becky.” Jay Beckerman whispered with a sigh. He sat by the window and looked outside. His face blurred in the white sunshine. “Did you get my postcard? I sent it as soon as I heard about you. Are you okay?” “I'm okay. I kind of knew this coming.” “What do you mean you knew this? You had symptoms?” “No, but I drank peptic instead of bear. Maybe peptic was stronger than I thought.” Jay Beckerman leans toward the green bottles and flicks them with his finger. The green bottles hummed clinking sounds. “How long have you been drinking peptic?” “I don't know. About ten years?” “Ten years?” The girl repeats the word in remoteness by discovering something unexpected from a person she thought knew well. “Or more?” Jay Beckerman smirked at her alarm. “Why did you do such a thing?” “You know, it tastes good, smells good, and has cute little green bottles.” “But you knew that you are gonna get ill out of it.” “Well, I didn't much care if I got ill.” There was some moment of silence. Only the sound of Becky sniffing echoed. According to the long-distance call, Becky, the girl with the gloomy eyes on the postcard and a picture, is Jay Beckerman's sweetheart. But she is far away across the ocean to learn how to make a fine paintbrush according to the Victorian style. That was her job in England. After an hour, Jay Beckerman plays an old CD, but it was too soft to chase away the solemn ambiance. He cooks a chicken soup and finally breaks into a cry, throwing the spoon across the sink. It collides with a china kettle with a pink rose pattern, which is maybe the most luxurious thing he owns. “Oh, no, no... Sorry, Mom.” It must be a gift from his mom, I thought while Jay Beckerman collected the pieces.Knock. “Pizza delivery!” I pull off the headset and climb down the hall carefully. When I open the door, there is, again, a short boy holding a pizza in a stupid red uniform. I don't get it. Is it some kind of metaphor for pepperoni, I ask him. But he simply tilts his head, holding out one hand for the pay. I am Wes Heimer, 81 years old man, an owner of this building which coincidently has wiretaps and spy cameras all over the place. I guess it was a former dwelling of a hitman or a prime suspect but no paper verifies the original owner. I discovered the panic room 3 years ago, and since then, I started a project. I observe people through cameras and wiretaps, but I am no freaky psycho or a pervert. I consider my building a sacred butterfly specimen. The people are my wings and I am just a looper wanting to fly. I eat pizza watching Jay Beckerman go to sleep. Before he lies down, he writes a letter to Becky. On a postcard with a picture of a cloud in a blue sky, there is a single line written with a rough black pen. “Please come home.” Red plastic cup dewed with black cola, brown box with crusts and arid scraps, pickle absorbing the blue light coming from the button on the wiretap machine. It falls into my eyes and becomes glistening stars in them. I stare into them in the reflection of myself in the mirror as I brush my teeth and as I climb into my bed. I fall into the darkness between the memory and forgetting as I closed my eyes. This is what I could get best from my life. Jay Beckerman is surely an interesting man. He is a man in the middle of those two borderlines. Humor and gravity. However, most of these days, he seems to use humor only to cover up the trace of death following his footsteps. He doesn't feel humor anymore, he only utilizes it. When Jay Beckerman was 13 years old, he met Becky. It was a summer day on the threshold of his mother's nail shop which was located at the verge of the cornfield. Young Jay used to hover around there with his bicycle, watching the immense waves of corn shake their heavy heads full of ripening beans. Those days felt endless like the endless stretching out cornfield. The monotonous line of the horizon, repetitive whispers of corn leaves brushing against each other, and the white sunshine roasting the road. He remembered the particular smell of the sun burning the soil. The drowsy smell of dust, the acerbic smell of the mashed green leaves. They would gently warm his cheeks with a sweep. 'Looking back,' he wrote. 'it was all becoming a part of me, building a delicately fabricated road of life that led to now.' He bore a handful of soil and a handful of air always inside his heart. Sometimes when the two elements mingled upside down like the otolith rolling in his ear, the eternity confused him. He used to worry about how can anything be meaningful in these ceaseless moments. However, now since his life was demising, he started to find everything strikingly meaningful. One summer day on the threshold of his mother's nail shop, Becky first entered Jay Beckerman's life. Though almost 36 years passed since that day, he still remembers the moment when he spotted a pale blue dot appearing above the horizon. It got bigger and bigger as it emerged to him. The surrounding was silent and the wind was motionless as if before the storm. Reminiscing, he is amazed at how some moments are determined purely by coincidences. He starts to call them fate. A girl came riding a bike and stopped at the exact spot she wanted it to be. She jumped off the bike and walked into the nail shop. And while putting her one foot on the threshold, she asked a woman. “How much for doing the nail?” She was very polite, but at the same time, she was powerfully confident. She looked undefeated: the length of her walk, the key of her voice piercing sharp and clear. “I'm not even working here.” A woman with a frown of contempt answered her. By that time, Jay was sitting on the fenceless porch in front of the shop. Hearing this line, he wondered why the woman should be so rude toward a stranger who she barely knew. Why was she upset? About what? When he figured out that the woman was annoyed for being mistaken as a lowlife worker at a nail shop, rage out of disgust hit him like a spark. It all disgusted him; how the frowning woman could get a service from his mother while putting her poisoning contempt under her transparent persona. Every time his mother touched the woman's fingertips, he winced. “It costs 30 dollars.” Jay's mother answered, appearing from the corner of the room, whisking off her wet hands. “Well, that's too expensive for me. Thank you.” Young Becky walked out of the shop and found young Jay sitting on the porch. “Do you know that woman inside?” She asked. “The one wrinkling her forehead with a frown?” “Yeah, she's not your mother or something, is she?” “She's not my mother, she's just a customer. My mother is the one working there.” “Such a relief. I was thinking what a bitch that frowning woman is! Any kid under her charge must be painfully suffering.” Jay was surprised at Becky's exclamation. But suddenly it turned into exhilaration. As his inexplicable hate toward the woman was officially confirmed as something reasonable, he felt justifiable. “I know.” At Jay's comment, Becky smiled her sunny smile. It melted down the hate and disgust in his guts and turned them into nothing. Becky made everything seem okay. With her armor-like confidence and reassuring smile shining like the varnish on it, he was safe beside her. They became friends riding bikes along the cornfield together. She would tie a thread to a branch of a tree and walk toward the deep core of the cornfield. Holding her sweaty small hand and the thin white thread in another, he ventured through the unknown ambiguity. The time at the cornfield started to pass fast. It became terminated when Jay and Becky became 18, the time they fell in love. They went to college together and their lives were more intertwined. Jay Beckerman thought it was the end of the story. He thought that they will be together, just like that forever. But Becky left without a word after finishing college. It was June, right after college graduation in May. She left in a taxi with only a suitcase accompanied. No one knew why she left, not even Jay Beckerman. After 2 years of her disappearance, a postcard came. That was it. Only postcards and phone calls. But Jay Beckerman believed that they were still in love. 'Why did you leave, Becky?' Jay Beckerman writes in his diary. A month passed from the day Jay Beckerman sent her a postcard. However, there hasn't been a response. Jay Beckerman died shortly after a few more weeks and was buried at the Cemetery beside his mother's grave. According to his wish, he was buried with the broken pieces of rose kettle given by his mother, postcards written by Becky, and peptic bottles he collected. I went to Jay Beckerman's funeral since it is my rule to attend the funerals of the ones who died living in my building. The service was taken on a beautiful sunny day as if death granted Jay Beckerman's last wish. I threw a handful of soil on his coffin and it sounded like a last knock saying that I had come. If Jay Beckerman is still lingering in this world, he must be very thankful to me. I left a message to Becky about his death and the schedule of his funeral. I also arranged the funeral with my own money and picked the headstone color as Amazon green. I thought it summed up his life pretty well, bringing the color of the cornfield and the color of the peptic bottle into one. Becky eventually came to Jay Beckerman's funeral. She was wearing a long black coat, a plain black dress, black flats, and black sunglasses. She was sniffing, but not crying. When she took off the sunglasses to take a close look at the headstone in the shade, I only saw tears soaking her eyes, not dropping from them. She looked reserved. Like simply accepting a refusal of a refund or cancellation of a booking, she stood there with a blank expression. “Are you Becky?” I ask her though I know her face. “Yes, I am. Who are you?” “I, I am a close friend of J, Jay.” Though I stammer a little since I barely talked to people for a while, it sounds like a person overwhelmed with sorrow. “It must have taken a lot to prepare this. Did Jay give you money?” “No, no. However, Jay asked me a favor.” “What favor?” She, again, takes off her sunglasses. “He told me to ask you why you left.” She halted every action for a moment. Shaking shoulder out of breathing stopped, the almost unperceivable tremble of the finger stopped, and swindling posture stopped; everything that was live and natural about her stopped. “But Jay is already dead, and I don't think it is necessary to verbalize it to a stranger.” “I am curious, Becky. And as a person who prepared the whole service instead of you, I think I deserve an explanation.” “So, you think I am responsible for him? I am not even married to him.” She scoffs and pulls out a cigarette from her black coat. “You are a very different person than I thought.” “Yes, I am. I am not to be defined or expected.” “But you loved him, right? At least you loved him.” “But loving and living are completely different things.” She mercilessly strokes a match and holds it while flaming with her fingertips. She smokes like a rebel into my face. “I had to leave him. I couldn't just live on like that and end up with nothing. The thing is that he always liked how everything was and I did not. Also, I was not a good person as he thought. I was not and I am not.” She watched how her smoke stroked Jay Beckerman's headstone and she stepped away, murmuring “Jay hated me smoking.” She looked confused in the smoke under the sunshine. Her eyes glisten somewhere between white smoke spreading like mist and the sharp sunshine cutting it like a blade. I handed the key to Jay Beckerman's residence in silence. After Becky was on her way to pack Jay Beckerman's stuff, I was on my way to Dr.Muhashin. “I need your brother to find out about Becky. I don't know her last name, but she is a girlfriend of Jay Beckerman and is working in England making a Victorian-style paintbrush.” “New specimen? By the way, he is not my related brother. You know that right? If you keep saying 'brother', someone might mistake me as his real brother and track me down or something.” “I'll call him Mr.Shadow then. He has this creepy aura.” “It's just because you don't know him that well. He is a good guy.” Dr.Muhashin laughed at my terrified expression. “How's your insomnia? You don't need meds anymore?” “I'm doing okay.” Dr.Muhashin has something that makes your guard down. He sees through people and never forgets what they told about themselves. As we parted down now dusk-falling ally, Dr.Muhashin told me. “Wes, never forget that you exist. Never lose the grasp of your past.” I nodded. As always, a man covered with hat, scarf, and gloves rings the doorbell after a week or so. He drops the report, I hand him money, and he left. According to the detective's information, Becky disappeared right after graduation to England. She worked at various places like convenience stores, burger shops, dentist's offices, etc. There was not much of a peculiarity. She had no other man in her life or big secret. Then, she got into a company making brushes according to the Victorian style and she stuck to that. I wondered what intrigued her to make the brush. “Loving and living are completely different things...” I murmured what she said to myself. The brush. The strands of hair concord to draw one line in unity. Those little pieces come together and dance on white canvas as if they are one. The elasticity is vibrant like the toes of the ballerina. Long thick arm of wooden handle stretches. It draws the line in the air, on the canvas, making a swishing sound. Spin, point, halt, draw. Life was becoming a brush on a white blank canvas. To draw a masterpiece, you have to dance till your toes burn off, till you sweat from the oppressing pain while biting your lips with rebellious endurance. Amid the burning pain, you realize yourself alive, as alive as the flaming matches kissing the tip of the cigarette. That must have been the dream of Becky. The night was becoming darker as the green headstone glinted under the blue moonlight, as the paintbrushes fell asleep on shelves in the paintbrush factory in England, and as Dr.Muhashin got up from his sofa to open the door for Mr.Shadow returning from his late work. I was four feet under the building, listening to the buzzing crackle coming from the empty room of Jay Beckerman's residence. Every strand of life that was either alive or dead was flowing into now darkening night.
","August 19, 2023 01:55",[]
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,5uopq9,Twins of Fate,Tsvi Jolles,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/5uopq9/,/short-story/5uopq9/,Fiction,0,"['Fiction', 'Drama', 'Romance']",3 likes,"
In the hushed and desolate streets of Columbia, South Carolina, where time had been captured and held prisoner by the relentless shadow of 2020's pandemic, the sudden ring of a doorbell became a rare, unsettling echo—a ghostly whisper of a world once familiar, now lost. When George opened the door, he found himself gazing into eyes that mirrored his own soul, yet were wrapped in a visage so vastly different, it was as if he were staring into a distant, forgotten reflection of himself.
	""George,"" the figure greeted, his voice familiar yet alien after all these years.
	Jacob stood there, George's identical twin, though you wouldn't think it at first glance. Decades of distance and different life choices painted stark contrasts between the two. Where George was well-groomed and clad in casual attire, Jacob looked like he had stepped out of a mystic's tent at a renaissance fair. His appearance was eccentric, a tangled mess of hair and a beard that spoke of many untold stories, possibly of travels or spiritual journeys.
	George, for his part, gave nothing away. His face remained indifferent, his posture relaxed. It was as though he'd seen Jacob just yesterday, and not after decades of estrangement.
	""Jacob,"" George acknowledged, not stepping aside, but not shutting the door either.
	Jacob, sensing the need for a more formal introduction after their prolonged absence from each other's lives, said, ""Reckoned it was 'bout time to see my twin again, 'specially with the world the way it is.""
	George's face, previously set in a mask of indifference, softened ever so slightly at the mention of the pandemic. ""Come on in,"" he said, his voice still guarded as he stepped aside. He gestured with an open hand, but his eyes remained cool, his embrace withheld. The warmth that might have been expected between long-lost siblings was missing, replaced by a polite but palpable distance.
	Inside, the living room bore the marks of a life well-lived—family photographs, well-thumbed books, ornithological sketches, and a shelf lined with bird-watching guides. A pair of binoculars rested on the windowsill, poised for George's avian observations. Comfortable furniture invited relaxation, but the portrait of two young boys, unmistakably George and Jacob, hinted at a bond that once was. Amidst the signs of George's bird-loving pursuits, that image stood as the silent elephant in the room as they took their seats.
	George was baffled as he tried to remember what beverage to offer his twin brother, Jacob. Cold water? Lemonade? Milk with cookies? The options swirled in his mind, but the details of Jacob's preferences had been lost to time. It had been so long, he had forgotten the nuances of his brother's taste. When Jacob's request for sacred herbal tea reached his ears, George was left even more puzzled, his brows furrowing as he tried to make sense of this unfamiliar desire.
	""Sacred herbal tea?"" George questioned.
	""Yep,"" Jacob replied, a knowing smile playing on his lips. ""Anything you learn to appreciate becomes sacred. So whatever tea you got will do just fine.""
	George set the kettle on the stove, a soft hissing sound filling the kitchen. As he joined his brother in the living room, he found Jacob eyeing the photos displayed on the walls and tables, his gaze pausing on one of George's sons.
	""Tell me 'bout Benjamin and Ian,"" Jacob asked, curiosity lighting his eyes. ""How're they holdin' up these days?""
	George's expression turned wistful as he settled into his armchair. ""Don't talk much to 'em,"" he admitted. ""Ian calls more often. But Benjamin, well, he's off bein' a writer. Not sure if he's successful or not. I reckon he's wanderin' 'round like a lost soul.""
	He let out a soft sigh, adding, ""Lucky he's got Emily as his wife. She's more down to earth, keeps him grounded.""
	Jacob chuckled, the sound rich and knowing, like a secret shared between old friends. He leaned back, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he said, ""Sounds like our cousin Henry, remember him? Ol' Henry with the crooked smile? He's been just like that. Had himself a good, strong wife, too, 'til he went and cheated on her with that blonde gal from the next town over. Some things are runnin' in the family, my brother, like a river that can't help but follow its course.""
	George's lips pressed into a thin line as he considered his brother's words. Jacob, oblivious to the undercurrents, continued to explore the room's memories, his eyes landing on a picture of George's long-time wife. ""And what about Gina? How's she doin'?"" he asked innocently.
	George's heart lurched in his chest. He looked away, lost for words.
	""She's... We separated,"" George's voice faltered, a whisper in the room's stillness. ""Now she's ill, real ill. Says she's only got a couple of months, but I hope not. Her sister and I, we visit, talk about books, try to be normal. We planned dinner once with the kids, but she got sicker. Had to cancel."" 
	Jacob's face fell, ""I'm so sorry, George. I didn't know.""
	George waved him off, forcing a weak smile. ""It's alright. Time moves on, and so do we.""
	They sat in a heavy silence until the kettle's insistent whistle cut through the quiet. George rose, his movements slow and deliberate. ""What about you?"" he finally asked. ""Where have you been hiding all these years? Did you find a place to call home? A love to call your own? Children to watch grow?"" 
	Jacob followed George into the kitchen, his steps more confident than those of his brother, who was his elder by just five minutes. ""I've been wanderin' a lot,"" he said, his voice tinged with a weary nostalgia. ""Spent years in Indiana, lost among cornfields. Then, 'bout 6 or 7 years back, my heart pulled me to Minneapolis. Can't say why. Just had to go.""
	“Just like it told you to pack your bags and leave Charleston that Tuesday afternoon so long ago,"" George said, pouring water from the kettle into a yellow china teapot.
	Jacob raised his eyebrows as he sat at George's kitchen table. ""It was a Tuesday, really? You remember that? Why would you remember that?""
	""I don't tell my mind what to remember, brother,"" Benjamin replied. ""I remember a lot of stuff about you. Like the day you made me fall into the mud when we were ten or so. I don't know why I remember that. I wish I could erase many of those memories, but they stick.""
	Jacob smiled at George, ""They stick like cockleburs on ol' Buster's tail, ya'll remember 'im?""
	Suddenly, they burst out laughing. George hadn't expected it, but it felt good. It felt good to laugh again, with his brother by his side. Wiping a tear of laughter from his eye, George said, ""Oh, Buster! That old hound could never shake those burrs loose, no matter how hard he tried.”
	Jacob caught George's lingering look at a photograph on the kitchen table. A young woman smiled back from the frame, her eyes alight with joy. “An' who's that, now?"" Jacob asked, his voice gentle, but probing. ""I don't recollect seein' 'er in the livin' room.""
	George's face softened, and he picked up the photograph, holding it as though it were a delicate artifact. ""I knew a young lady named Lisa,"" he said. ""I liked her a lot, thought about her all the time. Felt like there was a future for us. But that future never came to be.""
	Jacob's eyes met his brother's, filled with understanding and empathy. ""She went away?"" he asked.
	George placed the photograph back on the table, his fingers lingering on the frame as if trying to hold on to a memory that was slipping away. ""I don't know what's on her mind anymore. I wish I knew."" His voice cracked, and he looked away.
	Jacob reached into his worn leather bag and pulled out a deck of tarot cards, weathered from years of use. ""Want to know your future, George?""
	George's eyes narrowed thoughtful-like, and a half-smile tugged at his lips. ""The day 'fore you left, you pulled some tarrot cards and said you had to go far away and that you'd be back in some time. Here's another memory for you.""
	Jacob's smile widened, his hands deftly shuffling the deck with practiced ease. He looked up at George, a knowing glint in his eyes. ""Right, I guess the cards spoke the truth then, as they always do."" 
	As Jacob was spreading the deck of tarot cards on the table between them, his hands moving with a fluid grace that spoke of years of practice, he looked up and met George's eyes. ""What made you move from Charleston to Columbia?"" he asked, his voice laced with genuine curiosity.
	George's response was sharp, almost defensive, and he leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he looked at his brother. ""Gina had some business here. Nothing came out of it, but we stayed. I liked being away from the family for a while. Then we stayed, and it became home,"" he said, his voice softening on the last words.
	Jacob's eyes held understanding as he replied, ""I know just what you're talking about. Sometimes, a place just calls to you.""
	A sudden suspicion sparked in George's eyes as his gaze intensified. ""How did you get my address? Who gave you it?"" he asked.
	Jacob's hands stilled, and he looked at George, a calm smile spreading across his face. ""Sometimes, brother, the cards tell me more than just the future. They speak of the present and the past, too."" 
	George watched Jacob, entranced yet slightly uneasy, as something in Jacob's appearance tugged at the edges of his memory. Was it the curve of his jaw, the set of his eyes, or perhaps the timbre of his voice that so vividly conjured visions of their late father? 
	As Jacob spoke, George found himself even more captivated. Every word Jacob chose seemed to resonate with echoes of their childhood, filled with their momma's love and compassion. It was as if her essence was woven into the very fabric of his speech. 
	The room was filled with the gentle rustle of the cards, but George's attention was fixed on his brother. There was also something alien in this man who was his twin, something that didn't quite fit. The way he spread the deck, the way his gaze lingered on certain cards, it all seemed so strange, so unfamiliar.
	As the cards lay spread out on the table, George felt a shiver, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered if he was ready to hear what the cards had to say.
	George's eyes followed Jacob's hands as they danced across the cards, laying out a spread that seemed to hold the answers to questions he had not yet asked. Jacob's expression was focused, but his eyes sparkled with an excitement he couldn't quite conceal. The tarot had spoken, and he understood its language.
	""Well now, George,"" Jacob drawled, his eyes never leaving the cards. ""Looks like the Six of Cups is present, hinting at a reconnection with someone from the past. Ah, here's the Wheel of Fortune, too. Fate's got somethin' to say 'bout your future.""
	George's heart beat faster as Jacob continued, detailing the cards that seemed to tell a story of love, return, and choice. The Lovers, the Two of Cups, the Judgment Card—all painting a picture that was both thrilling and mystifying.
	Then, with a knowing smile, Jacob looked up from the cards, his eyes meeting George's. ""You've been holdin' that photo of Lisa without even noticin', haven't you? Seems to me these cards are tellin' us she's comin' back to your life.""
	George's breath caught in his throat, his hand gripping the photo tighter. Could it really be? Was there truly a chance that Lisa, the woman he had thought about so often, could return to him?
	""Life's got its ways, brother,"" Jacob said softly, his voice a gentle echo of their momma’s. ""Sometimes the heart knows things the mind can't explain. Maybe it's time to trust that feelin' inside you.""
	Jacob's face, a moment ago so sure and confident, suddenly went pale as he stared at one of the last cards drawn. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached to touch it.
	""I didn't expect this card,"" Jacob muttered.
	""What is it?"" George asked. He could feel the tension in the room, thick and heavy, as if the very air had been sucked out.
	Jacob looked up at his brother, his eyes wide and filled with an emotion George couldn't quite place. Fear? Surprise? Sadness? It was a mix of all three, and something else besides.
	""It's the Death card, George,"" Jacob finally said, his voice low. ""It's changin' everything. Lisa is comin' back, I promise you that, but it's only gonna be after your death.""
	In the dimly lit kitchen, a silence fell, deep and profound, as George tried to comprehend what his brother had just said.
	""Are you sure?"" he finally managed to ask, his voice trembling.
	Jacob nodded slowly, his face grave. ""The cards don't lie, brother. They've never lied to me before. I wish I could tell you somethin' different, but this is what they're sayin'.""
	George's face twisted into a grimace, his eyes darkening with a mixture of frustration and curiosity. ""Well, I felt pretty miserable before you showed up, Jacob. Now, with these cards of yours, I'm reminded of my misery, like salt in an old wound,"" he spat, his voice dripping with skepticism. ""You know I don't believe a damn thing in this mystical stuff, brother, but still, I can't help but wonder."" He paused, his eyes searching Jacob's face, probing for some hidden truth. ""You've been talking to all sorts of folks about their spiritual moments and things, haven't you? So, tell me, when someone's lost, when they look you in the eye and ask, 'What do I do now?' what do you tell them? What wisdom do you offer to a soul adrift?"" 
	Jacob reached across the table, his hand finding George's. ""You live, George,"" he said softly. ""You live and you love, and you make the most of the time you've got. Ain't no fancy wisdom to it. Just the way we were raised, brother. That's all any of us can do.""
	They settled into a comfortable rhythm, sipping tea that Jacob had imbued with some sacred meaning, their conversation meandering through the safe territories of the present. They steered clear of any memories of Lisa or Gina, the complexities of George’s young ones, or any of Jacob's mysterious wanderings. They jawed like they did when they were just knee-high to a grasshopper, their words a playful dance that took them back to a time when their momma, more often than their dad, would hush them up and send them off to bed. They talked about America, the scars left by the pandemic, the charm of Charleston, and the quirks of Columbia. Politics even made a brief appearance, with Jacob proudly declaring his newfound Republican allegiance, but they didn't linger there, knowing some topics were best left untouched.
	It was a conversation that felt like home, a connection rekindled, a bridge across the years that had separated them. In those precious hours, they were not two men burdened by life's complexities; they were simply brothers.
	George could feel the soul of his momma in every word Jacob said, and for him, that was enough. More than enough, like being wrapped up in a hug by the woman he cherished so, the one he hadn't embraced for more then twenty five years now.
 
Jacob stood up around midnight, declaring he had to leave. Said Columbia was but a stop on his way South, but he didn't spill how far south or where he aimed to bed down for the night. George didn't offer anything, not a spot on the couch for sleeping nor any grub or water for the journey. He just stood right there next to his twin and said, ""It was a pleasure to have you here."" No less or more than that.
	But when Jacob stood by the door, waving goodbye, George did reach out to hug him, feeling a sudden urge, a need. One last hug. One last time he'd look upon his brother. He didn't need a Tarot reading or cards like the Tower, the Hermit, or the Six of Swords to know Jacob wouldn't show his face again. He was off living on his own planet, so to speak.
	""So long, brother,"" he said, feeling his body against that of his twin. What a marvelous feeling. What a shocking one. A connection he hadn't felt for ages, like a thread reaching back through time, pulling at his very soul.
	""Then he watched his brother mosey away, a figure shrinking in the distance, taking part of him with him. Back on the couch in the living room, he caught Lisa's gaze from a photo on the kitchen table. She was there, certainly, her eyes looking right at him.
	'You're comin' back, huh?' he muttered at the photo. 'I knew you would. I had a strong feelin'.'""
","August 18, 2023 22:17","[[{'Mary Bendickson': 'Timeless connections.', 'time': '04:16 Aug 22, 2023', 'points': '2'}, []]]"
prompt_0025,Write a story starring an octogenarian who’s more than meets the eye.,0yt1bt,  The Devil's Daughter,Erica Dorsey,https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/0yt1bt/,/short-story/0yt1bt/,Fiction,0,"['American', 'Black', 'Fiction']",3 likes,"
“Mouse! It’s your turn to check on Mama and Papa!” Mouse’s brother yelled as he chased their cousins' kids around the lake. “You know how Papa is!”
That, Mouse thought, was the understatement of the century.
Mouse Hasley left her family raising hell around the small lake on her great-grandparents' property. She gave up on keeping track of the horde in the first hour because…. As everyone who knew them always said….. The Hasley family had a bit of the devil in ‘em.
 
They were good people…. But man could they raise hell when they got together.
 
 It was a family tradition that at least a couple of weeks a year, every summer, everyone would migrate back to their great- grandparents' plot of land in the small town of Georgiana, Alabama. It was a small two gas station town full of dirt roads and houses nestled between the trees in the middle of the forest. It was a mostly black town full of easy going people and the Hasley family had lived in these parts for generations.
 
 So Mouse Hasley got up from her perch beneath a tree and meandered up the dirt path that led back to her great-grandparents home.
 
It was what they called the witching hour.  The twilight hour in which the fireflies were dancing about…. And the crickets were singing through the trees.
 
It was magical and it was Mouse’s favorite part of the day.
 
She strolled barefoot through the humid Alabama heat in shorts and a t-shirt. Her hair was already poofing up and becoming frizzy from the humidity as she spotted her great-grandparents home emerging from the trees.
 
They lived in a decent sized wooden home among the green acres of their small farm. They owned a good sized bit of land and one of Mouse’s aunts lived not even ten feet away in a mobile home. She could already smell the food that her aunt and uncle were frying up inside and it wouldn’t be long before everyone started migrating back to eat.
 
Mouse saw her great-grandparents sitting on the porch of their home in rocking chairs. They were sitting quietly in the evening as her great-grandmama shelled  peas that their family had helped her pick that very morning. 
Mouse’s great-grandpapa was staring off into the forest and humming to himself.
 
They were Mama and Papa.
 
The whole family called them Mama and Papa.
She supposed it had  something to do with the fact that every generation of their family were sort of raised here.  They were allowed to have fun, play, and be free here on this patch of land. 
 
“Hey Mama and Papa!” Mouse said as she walked up the wooden walkway to the porch of her great-grandparents home. 
 
“Hey Sugar…..” Mama said softly as she continued shelling peas into a huge empty plastic bowl. 
She didn’t look up from her work as she rocked slowly in her cotton dress. She was a quiet, dark skinned woman— but she had a twinkle in her eye that was often mischievous. Mouse sat beside her in another rocking chair and picked up another plastic bowl herself to help her Mama shell her basket of peas.
 
Papa just grinned at her from his own rocking chair.
He was a charming old man who told the best stories. He always wove the craziest tales and swore up and down they were true.
 
“Hey Mouse!” Papa said with a grin as he continued rocking in his chair.“ Ya’ll havin’ fun?”
 
Mouse rolled her eyes as she started shelling her own peas.
 
“ We’re havin’ too much fun, Papa….” Mouse mumbled. Mouse loved her family but goddammit…. The adults were gossiping, drinking, and gambling and the kids were running around like half feral animals.
“Ain’t no such thing!” Papa said with a grin and twinkling eyes.
 
There was such a thing but Mouse kept her thoughts to herself. She glanced up at Papa who was still grinning at her and then at Mama— who was quietly absorbed in her task.
They were such different people.
Mouse looked back down into her bowl.
 
“Papa? How’d you and Mama meet?” Mouse asked curiously. They were the Matriarch and Patriarch of the family.  They had simply always been there as far as Mouse was concerned. They helped raise each generation in a sort of distant hands off sort of way. That’s not to say that they weren’t loving. They just  weren’t the type to interfere in the lives and decisions of the family.
 They were simply there to offer comfort and encouragement when someone hit rock bottom– and then tell them to start climbing.
 
Mouse saw the twinkle in her Papa’s eye and knew she was in for a tale.
 
“Well…. I just so happened to meet your great-grandmama the same day that I met the devil!” Papa said with a laugh.
 
Mouse rolled her eyes and looked at Mama. She should’ve known Papa was going to start tellin’ stories.
 
“Mama, tell Papa to stop playing and tell me the truth.”  Mouse asked and demanded at the same time. She knew Mama was always the more reasonable of the two of them.
 
Mama just kept rocking  in her chair with a serene smile on her face.
 
“Listen to your Papa, Sugar….” She said sweetly with a twinkle in her eye. So Mouse resigned herself to whatever craziness that was gonna come out of her Papa’s mouth.
 
“That’s right!” Papa said gleefully, “ Listen to your Papa! ….Now as I was saying! I met your grand-mama  the same day I met the devil! I had just turned eighteen years old and as far as my family was concerned…. I was now a Man! So my daddy gave me a whoppin’ five hundred dollars and told me to make my own way in the world! Now five hundred dollars back then…. Was a whole LOTTA  money. I could do anything I wanted! I could buy a house and a farm! I could travel the states! So, guess what I did?”
 
Mouse didn’t look up from her task.
 
“You bought the farm?” She answered. curiously  After all, that’s where they were now.
 
“Nope!” Papa said cheerfully, “ I went gambling! I traveled and gambled with nearly everyone who would play me! And I always won! Guess how I won?”
 
“You were lucky?” 
 
“Nope! I cheated!” Papa laughed and Mouse sighed. “ And man was I a good cheater. I cheated so good that I QUADRUPLED MY MONEY!”
 
“Papa…” Mouse said with a laugh, “ Stop playin!”
 
“ I’m not a playin’ girl! If I’m lyin’ , I’m dyin’!” He replied with a grin.
 
“So anyway” Papa continued, “ I was travelin’ back home to see my folks. I was actually almost  home and it was starting to get dark. That’s when I saw this big, black, bastard  sittin’ on the side of the road. He was black as night and he was smoking’ a cigar. When I got close to him— he asked me if I wanted to play a game of Bones! That’s what we called dice back then.”
 
Mice already knew that. She’d left her uncles playing a game of bones back by the lake.
 
“That’s when he told me that if I won the game–He’d give me another five hundred dollars! So we started gambling! We gambled all night long! Guess who won?” Papa asked cheekily.
 
“You did?” Mouse answered.
 
“Nope!” Papa laughed, “ I LOST! I lost ALL My money.  I was so upset because I couldn’t go home to my folks and tell em’ that I lost all the money they gave me gambling! So I begged the man for another game! I told him that I would do anything for another game! So he agreed to play me one more game. On one condition… guess what it was?”
 
“What Papa?” Mouse replied indulgently.
 
“He told me he'd play me one more game. However, if I lost…. I had to give him my soul.” Papa said in a serious tone.
 
Mouse looked up from shelling her peas and saw Papa staring pensively off into the forest.
 
“That’s when I really looked at the man.” Papa continued, “I finally looked at the man and saw that he had red eyes that burned like fire. I looked around and realized we were at crossroads. I pulled out my watch and realized time had stopped… It was the witching hour. That’s when I realized I was playing the devil. Now, I had enough sense to realize that gambling with the devil for my soul was a bad idea…. And this is why they say pride is a sin. But my pride told me that I could do it. That I couldn’t go back to my parents penniless…. And losin’ my soul was only a big deal if I lost. So I played the devil one more time…… and I lost my soul.”
 
The world around them had gone quiet. The crickets had even gone silent.
 
Mouse looked up at her Papa as he continued rocking slowly in his chair.
 
“The devil reached right into my chest and ripped out my soul. It was the most painful thing I ever felt. It felt like I was on fire. Then the devil smiled, tipped his hat at me, and disappeared. I don’t know how long I lay there crying at the crossroads. All I know is that eventually I looked up and the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen was standing there.
 
 She kneeled beside me and said, 
“My daddy took your soul.”
 
Papa looked over at Mama then with a smile on his face.
 
“That beautiful woman told me,’ I’ll make you a deal. If I get your soul back–You’ll have to marry me.’...... and you know how I answered?”
 
“....Yes?” 
 
“I asked her if she could get my money back too!” Papa said with a laugh, “And that beautiful woman looked at me like I was the stupidest man in the world! So I grinned at her and told her that if she got my soul back… I’ll happily marry a beautiful woman like her. It was no skin off my back.  She told me to lay my head in her lap and go to sleep. I fell asleep with my head in that woman’s lap as she stroked my hair—-And when I woke up…. I had my soul back. She also got my money back too! So I married the devil’s daughter and was damn happy about it too. So that’s how your Mama and I met? Ain’t it romantic?”
 
Mouse threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. She should’ve known she wasn’t gonna get the truth out of Papa.  She turned to her great-grandmama who was still rocking serenely in her rocking chair and shelling peas.
 
She looked at Mouse with a small smile on her face.
 
“Mama…” Mouse whined to her like a baby but she didn’t care. She even pouted and Mama laughed at her, "" Tell me the real story about you guys met!""
 
Mama laughed again.
 
“Listen to your Papa, sugar…” Mama said with a sly smile and a twinkle in her eyes.
Then she winked at Mouse….
And her eyes flashed crimson.
 
 
 
 
The End.
 
","August 19, 2023 00:38",[]