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Another Cold Morning in the Tower

By

As always, he’d put the kettle on for tea. She awoke to the whistle. Today I will escape, she resolved, throwing off the bedclothes.

She encased herself in her royal-blue robe and waited. The sad-faced jailer appeared. He set the breakfast tray on her table, and then dragged out the ornate chair.

“Tea again? I prefer milk.”

“Yes, but tea is what we have.”

“And sugar instead of honey.”

“Again, we make do, my lady.”

He bowed deeply to her.

“I will escape today, jailer.”

“There is always hope.”

“Yes,” she said. “There always is.”

She drank the honeyed tea.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #406 at Velvet Verbosity.

No Kind of Wing Shot

By

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 the original version this story for the 100 Word Challenge #405 at Velvet Verbosity. I revised the story on June 11, 2022.

Home in No Time

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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 went 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.

I wrote this story for the 100 Word Challenge #381 at Velvet Verbosity, and revised it on June 12, 2022.

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.

Timing is Everything

By

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.