No Kind of Wing Shot

By Jim Anderson

Sam found the shotgun under the stairs. His 12-gauge Remington pump, a classic with its clean lines and walnut stock.
His father had preferred semi-automatics.

His father was no kind of wing shot, but he could work a duck call. He trained Black Labs, too, and was a good man to have with you on a hunt.

Sam opened a box of shells, and eased one out, pinching the brass between thumb and forefinger. He decided to clean the Remington and sell it.

The last shot his father took was with a Glock into the roof of his own mouth.

ORIGINAL VERSION:

Sam found the shotgun where he’d left it. A 12-gauge Remington pump, his favorite, a classic gun, really, with its clean line and walnut stock. His father had preferred an automatic.

The old man was no kind of wing shot, but he could work a duck call as sweet as anybody. That and the Labs he trained made him a good man to have with you on a hunt. Not so good other times. Jesus, no!

Sam felt the usual jumble of emotions. He opened a box of shells, and eased one out, pinching the brass between thumb and forefinger.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #405 at Velvet Verbosity.

Home in No Time

By Jim Anderson

Late morning, driving home from an oil change, Griff was startled when a town appeared where he never knew there was a town. He braked sharply, then felt sheepish that he had and drove ahead to a McDonald’s parking lot. The asphalt was deep black and glittery, and the yellow lines glowed like neon. Griff let the car roll into a spot. He shifted into park. I’m not lost, he thought. I missed a turn. I found this town. You don’t find a town every day. He’d turn around, go back the way he came, be home in no time.

ORIGINAL VERSION:

Late morning with the sun blazing, on his way home from an oil change, Griff was startled when a town appeared where he never knew there was a town. He braked sharply, and then felt sheepish that he had.

He pulled into the roomy parking lot of a McDonald’s. The asphalt was smooth and dark, the yellow lines bright. Place must be new, Griff thought. He shifted the Buick into park, and sat there a moment. I’m not lost. I just missed a turn. Happen to anybody.

He’d go back the way he came.

He’d be home in no time.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #381 at Velvet Verbosity.

Timing is Everything

By Jim Anderson

Fellowes, carrying orders for the 3rd Division, stood in the sandy track, clutching the dispatch case against his side like a talisman. Across the field, smoke rose from a distant blue tree-line.

Small groups of men moved about the field. Fellowes started toward one group. All around him, dark shapes lay in the stubble. He avoided looking at them. He couldn’t avoid smelling them.

His way was blocked by a silent tangle of men and horses. At his feet was a kepi with a sky-blue clover leaf on its top.

Fellowes let out his breath.

He’d found the 3rd Division.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #380 at Velvet Verbosity.

The Tiny Shop of Hope

By Jim Anderson

She was a writer, working on a book about antique furniture restoration. Her research was a collection of disparate facts.

No theme, no center. Would it ever come together? Would anyone care if it did not? Aside from her publisher, of course, whose deadlines were scratched in granite.

She went on searching. It’s what you did. You went on. Today, she found herself in a two-light town west of the city, alone, standing at the threshold of a shop on a musty side street, her hand trembling as she reached for the knob, her heart full of something like hope.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #379 at Velvet Verbosity.

Ranson’s Beard

By Jim Anderson

Ranson’s beard was older than his daughter, the corporate attorney who’d moved to Oregon to get as far from him as North America allowed.

He wasn’t shaving without due consideration. He’d grown it the summer of Lillian’s pregnancy. He was teaching philosophy in Ohio, and working on his book. One day he stopped at a produce stand, and the be-whiskered farmer who sold him sweet corn provided the inspiration. Lillian never liked facial hair. Their divorce was as much about that as anything.

Ranson kept the beard all through his marriage to Samantha.

Now it was time for the razor.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #378 at Velvet Verbosity.

The Demon and the Friar

By Jim Anderson

On the last day of his journey, Friar Tom trudged along the river path, leading a donkey as hungry as he was. Ahead lay the ford, and beyond that, the easy trail to the village, his favorite inn, and food.

Tom stopped short at the river’s edge. On the far bank, a woman sat on a boulder. Her skin was silver, her dark hair cut like a boy’s.

“Demon,” Tom whispered.

Just a woman, said a voice in his head. Come forward, dear friar. You’re starving!

“No, I won’t.”

You will, though. Eventually.

Mute with hunger, Tom could only nod.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #358 at Velvet Verbosity.