Saturday Short: Sharks in the Clouds

Alan looked out over the mess of left by the winter storm. Building would have to cease until the ground dried and they could pull the machines out of the cloying mud before it turned to hardenphotograph of clouds seen after a rainstorm, an hour after sunriseed clay.

He raised his eyes to the lingering clouds that covered the horizon, still dark and heavy with un-spilled rain. When Alan saw the white cloud that looked like a shark fin cutting through the sky, his breath caught in his chest. Alan turned his back to the clouds and ran to find his mother. They would listen to her if she spoke of the omen and they had to be warned.

Saturday Short: The Pigeons on the Spear

There were seven pigeons sitting on the statue’s spear on the grey Saturday morning when Sheri took her break.  She always spent her breaks outside, even when when the skies were filled with clouds and mist clung to her coat so that she shivered.

photograph of pigeons sitting on a spear held aloft by a statue of a dude on a horseNo one ever joined her during her breaks and Sheri watched the pigeons with envy as they preened and cooed, comfortable in one another’s company.

“I bet it’s nice to always have a friend with you.”

As she turned to go back inside, Sheri swore one of the pigeons blinked at her. But when she turned around to take another look, they had taken off as one leaving the statue and her behind.

Saturday Short: The Stone Lion

photograph of a seated, stone lion statue

The little girl came running down the steps of the museum with tears cascading down her cheeks and her hair streaming behind her. She saw the stone lion, perched high above on its weathered stone base and flopped down beside it. Head buried in her hands, she let herself sob. No one came down the stairs after her.

“Why are you crying, little cub?” a voice rumbled above her like stone rubbing against stone.

The little girl rubbed her eyes and stared up at the stone lion. His chin was resting on his paws as he looked down at her. He hadn’t been in that position before, had he?

“Why are you crying?” the lion’s mouth moved and stone dust rained down on her head.

“The other students were picking on me, again….sir.” If a lion, even a stone one, talked to you, it was best to answer the question politely.

A low growl shook the base of the statue and the little girl scooted away until she felt the branches of a bush digging into her back. “Cubs can be cruel, but you must not listen to them.”

“Why not?”

“Because they are stupid, little one, and scared of what you may become.”

“Really?” She rubbed her nose with the sleeve of her jacket and didn’t notice she’d stopped crying.

The lion nodded his head. “Anyone can see you will become a lioness, little one, and that scares some.”

The girl smiled and whispered to herself, “A lioness.”

The lion smiled down at her. “Now go back before they find you missing, little one.”

She scrambled to her feet and brushed the leaves from her pants. “Thank you.” As she turned she heard a rumble like the crunch of gravel. When she spun around, the lion was back to his original position as if he’d never moved. She squared her shoulders and walked back into the museum. The sun came out behind the cloud and if anyone observant had been watching the little girl as she climbed the steps, they might have seen what looked like a shadow of a lioness walking beside her. But, they’d probably convince themselves that their eyes were playing tricks because of the bright sunlight.

Saturday Short: The Smiley Binder Clip

photo of a smiley binder clip on a notebook

Marissa looked down at the stack of notepaper on her desk and smiled. It was held together with a new binder clip she’d found at the store yesterday. Her weakness when it came to impulse spending was cute office supplies. As vices go, it was a minor one and not even worth noting for a workaholic.

The new binder clip had a smiling face cut out of its metal body and made even making a to-do list seem like more fun. Marissa pulled a pen out of the cup on her desk and went to write her list for the day.

“Hello,” the binder clip said. “Are we going to work together today?”

Marissa dropped the pen and her mouth fell open. This was it; she was finally having a nervous breakdown from having worked too much.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Just want to help.” The binder clip went back to smiling.

“Okay,” Marissa said as she picked up her pen. “If I’m breaking down, I might as well get help from the office supplies.”

An hour later when Marissa’s colleague passed her office door, he heard laughter. He peaked in through her window to see if she was goofing off, but she was working on a large spreadsheet, chuckling and talking to herself. He shrugged and went back to his office.

Saturday Short: Cat’s Dreams

photograph of a sleeping cat“Do cats dream?” the girl asked as she watched the brown tabby cat’s feet and whiskers twitch as she slept.

“What do you think?” I asked.

She squinted her eyes at the cat as if she looked hard enough she could make the cat’s dreams become visible. The cat’s whiskers twitched again. The girl shook her head.

“I don’t know.” She looked up at me. “What do you think?”

I smiled. “Of course they dream. Everyone dreams or else how would we keep this world spinning?”

The girl smiled. “I like dreams. Cat’s dreams must be exciting!”

I took her hand and reached out my other hand to the cat. I laid my hand gently on her head so as not to wake her. One of her eye’s opened to a slit before closing again. “Then I think you’ll this dream.”

Saturday Short: The Breezeway

photograph of an outdoor, cement breezeway

“No one’s ever made it to the end of the breezeway,” Clif said with a shake of his head. “They run and they run, but that green you see there it don’t ever get closer.”

“Why do they try?” Lee asked and pulled her scarf tighter as another gust of cold winter wind blasted through the unprotected space.

“They say if you can make it to the end, to the green, on that side is paradise.”

“Have you tried?”

Clif nodded then  turned so he could blame his tears on the wind.

Lee stared at the far patch of green then turned and began walking back to camp. “One day I’ll try to,” she said. “And I’ll make it, too.”

“I’d like to see that,” Clif said as he caught up.

Lee nodded. “You’ll be with me old friend. Together, after the wind changes, we’ll make a run at paradise.”

 

Saturday Short: The Time Book

“Well, here it is,” the shopkeeper said as he placed the worn volume in front her on the counpicture of an old notebook with a picture of a watch face and the words weekly time book written on the front coverter.

The spine had been worn down in places, the brown spine showing the cloth weaving of the binding below. The cover was similarly battered, but the words “Weekly Time Book” were still legible as was the line drawing of a watchface, wings, and scythe that made the shopkeeper shiver if he looked at it too long.

“It’s not much use,” the shopkeeper said, scratching his head. “Most of the pages are already scribbled on with gibberish. If you wait ’til next week’s train comes through, we’ll have a shipment of brand new time books. You could get one then.”

Devin looked up and smiled at the shopkeeper as she pulled out her coin purse. “No, this one is perfect. How much?”

“Ten cents seems fair. New one would be twenty.”

Devin nodded. It was more than fair. The shopkeeper had no idea what he had and she had no intention of telling him otherwise. She counted the coins out on the counter and the shopkeeper wrapped her purchase up in a sheet of yesterday’s newsprint. As she took it in her hand, he held on and she frowned at him, an eyebrow raised in question.

“Tell me, miss, what could you possibly want with this old thing?”

Devin’s face melted into a smile. “Time waits for no one, Mr. White, but perhaps someday it will wait for me.”

He let the parcel go and watched her walk out of the shop. He shivered once as the bell on the door chimed from her passage and shook his head as he went back to work.

Saturday Short: The Patisserie

Photograph of a white building with the word, patisserie, drawn on the side in beautiful script

“That’ll be twenty-five,” the taxi driver said.

Bethany turned back to the taxi. “Of course.” She reached into her wallet and pulled out the fare, plus a generous tip. “Thank you.”

The taxi driver grunted and stuffed the money into his pocket. Bethany decided the grunt meant thank you in taxi-speak and turned her attention back to the sky. She closed her eyes and smiled as the sun warmed her cheeks. As she opened her eyes, she looked at the white stucco patisserie in front of her. The fanciful, painted script was still there on the side of the building, just like she remembered, and the bush in front was now flowering.

“Perfect,” Bethany said as she picked up her two bags and walked to the front door. A whisk stuck out of one of the bags as she set it down to fiddle with the lock.

A few hours and few bangs of pots, cupboards, and doors later, the unmistakable scent of baking sweets curled out from the patisserie’s doors. And, for the first time in many years, people stopped and sniffed the air with puzzled, but hopeful smiles on their faces.

One man was bold enough to knock on the door and, finding it unlocked, popped his head inside. “Hello?” he called, more question than greeting.

“Oh, hello,” Bethany said, sticking her head around the doorframe to the kitchen. “Come on in. I just finished the first batch of madelines and would love a taste tester.”

“Madelines?” His face lit up with a smile half-hidden on his lips.

Bethany smiled and nodded.

“They’re my favorites. My wife used to make them.”

“Then you must try mine. Perhaps they’ll be half as good as hers.” She set down her bowl and brought out a plate of delicate madelines.

A few minutes later, the sound of laughter combined with the smell of pastries and sweets swept out the front door and into the street. The patisserie was perfect indeed.

 

Saturday Short: Jam Jars

photography of strawberry jam in canning jars

Holly looked at the cooling jars of strawberry jam with her arms on her hips, head cocked to one side. The jars sparked on the red and white checked cloth, like jewels but tastier. Jonas walked up and stood beside her.

“So what did you put in this batch?” he asked.

“What’d you mean? It’s strawberry jam, of course.”

“Yeah, but you always put something else in it. Remember last year?”

Holly shook her head and shivered. “Wouldn’t do that again and you know it.”

Jonas raised an eyebrow at Holly before walking out of the kitchen. When he was gone, Holly turned back to the jars with a smile on her face. Putting a pinch of foresight into the jam last year was a bad idea; it made the jam taste too tart and people had visions they didn’t understand for a couple of weeks, but Holly had smoothed everything over. This year she wouldn’t make that mistake. This year she just added a dash of curiosity to the jam. What could possibly go wrong?

Rules for Novels

As we move into the homestretch of NaNoWriMo, it seemed only appropriate to practice my calligraphy on a quote about writing novels.

"There are 3 rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are." ~W. Somerset Maughan

“There are 3 rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.” ~W. Somerset Maughan

I love the precise number of rules, that no one knows, for writing a novel. It can feel that way sometimes, especially in the middle of writing a first draft, as if everyone is acting like they know what they are doing when they really have as little a clue as you do. What I think is really great about this quote, though, is that it is freeing. If no one knows the three rules are, then we don’t have to worry about following or breaking them. Then we can just get on with the business of writing.

I hope you have having a lovely November. And, if you are participating in NaNoWriMo, I wish you amazing writing days and nights filled with dreams that answer all your noveling questions.