Out of the Shadows

Out of the Shadows

“Midnight on the bridge. Come alone.” Jock found the note taped to his computer. He laughed and brushed it aside. Mike must have put one of the secretaries up to this. While he finished up the days entries, he thought about his so called buddy. Did he really think I’d fall for something that juvenile? The cute little heart in the corner? I’m passed all of that. So I haven’t had a day off in over a year. I barely have time to sleep anymore. Four jobs just to keep body and soul together. I should be mad at him

~~~~~

He loosened his tie and then tightened it again. The mirror couldn’t tell him which was better. Jock hadn’t been able to make a decision about what to wear. Not that he had much of a wardrobe. Casual for work. Suit and tie for going out. He had two good sweaters for work. The navy one was clean. Even his mother approved of it when he wore it to Sunday dinners. When he put it with his other clean shirt and his red tie, she said he looked ‘well turned out’. He grimaced at the thought ‘There’s my boy and so well turned out. Now straighten your tie.’ At the thought, he loosened his tie. “If she knew what I was about to do, she’d probably send me to my room. Or at least try to.

~~~~~

And now here he was, hiding behind a large bush in the park, the smell of hydrangeas and roses softening the night. Bright lights from the city lit up the park, throwing long shadows across the bridge. Rustling in the dark bushes made him uneasy. The park was often home to the homeless at night. Had he disturbed someone? Mike’s note was a fake, just to see if he’d show up. Jock was about to turn and leave when he heard a sob. And then ~“@#$@#% ~ That mean, stupid *%^&*%^! He’s probably two feet away laughing at me. Well, I’ll show him!” The bushes parted violently, leaves torn from their branches. “You! What are you doing here?!”

“Brenda?! What are you doing here?” Jock was almost whispering. Brenda was not. “I could ask you the same thing, Jock. What are you doing here? I got a message to come here alone at midnight. Well it’s after midnight, there’s no one even on the bridge. That’s why I’m hiding here ~ to see if anyone would even show up on the stupid bridge.” As tough as Brenda sounded, Jock could see tears glistening in her lovely eyes. Softly he said “I got the same note Bren. Look.” He pulled the wrinkled note from his pants pocket.

~~~~~

There wasn’t anything to do in the park after midnight, and only one all night coffee shop open in the city’s central core. It was diner fare and the coffee wasn’t the best, but Jock and Brenda decided that they needed to talk. Over an early morning breakfast of crispy fried eggs and soggy waffles, they plotted and laughed.

“Sometimes a Cupid plays hard to catch

as he always got new couples to match.”

~ Ana Claudia Antunes, author

Author’s note: Another writing exercise <writingexercises.co.uk> 

The exercise: Random dialogue: “Midnight on the bridge. Come alone.” This is the second draft of this story. The first was handwritten and completely stream of consciousness. When I was transcribing it an hour later, there was a sudden and unplanned name change! ‘Sam’ became ‘Jock’. Sam’s story fizzled out. Jock had an entirely different story to tell. I know, always blame it on the characters!

Turning A Corner

Turning A Corner

Was it simply luck that had caused her to turn down this street? It wasn’t really a street, more like a passageway. She’d only stepped onto the neat cobblestones when she saw it. Just lying there. Glistening in the weak sunlight; waiting for her to come along and pick it up. So different from the cobblestones, the little white card seemed to glow. Did Annabelle hear a choir of angels from the puffy white clouds or was she just imagining things? Who dropped it? Or did someone throw it away? Did that matter? She picked it up. Scouring newspapers, the internet at the library, posters on cork boards, anywhere she could find them and even telephone pole, Annabelle had found many jobs. She dressed carefully each morning in her only dress and her only shoes; both showing age and wear. Mailing out many resumés, she had a few unsuccessful interviews and rent day was coming soon with no way to pay her landlord. 

Annabelle’s face fell when she read the card. It was her last failed interviewer’s card. She almost flung it back on the ground, but turned it over. A phone number, a name and a scribbled note. Deciphering the note, she read: need nanny, talk with Joe Farley at Agency. Should she call whoever wrote this note? What did she have to lose? She had wanted a nanny placement. She tried everything else.  She’d be brave and call just incase these people were still looking. 

~~~~~

Years later, her two charges were grown and had moved on with their lives. Sitting quietly with their father one evening, Annabelle pulled out the little card. A reminder for them both of the magic of the day she turned a corner.

~~~~~

“Ability is of little account without opportunity.”

~ Napoleon Bonaparte

Author’s note: Another writing exercise! 

                        Same website: writingexercises.co.uk 

The exercise: Random First Line: I chose: Was it simply luck that had caused her to turn down this street? From childhood, I was taught to always answer a question - and quickly. A story was not the best response then, but I am a bit older now. Still lots of questions and answers can be as long as I want them.

A Silly Story

A Silly Story

The town of Gnatsbridge was barely a spot on the map. Only its name was a curiosity. Curious enough to attract the occasional passing tourist. Passing may be a bit of a stretch. Gnatsbridge was five kilometres off the main highway and one hundred km  from the nearest city. One restaurant was attached to a small motel, elegantly named the Grand Gnatsbridge Motel. To get to this quaint little town, there was a bridge to cross. An old wooden bridge over the Gnat River.  

Each tourist that detoured to Gnatsbridge for gas, for a night off from the road, or just because was treated to Ma Malarkey’s story of how the town got its name. No one really knows if it’s true because Ma is the oldest woman in town. She was just under four feet ten, her long white hair was piled randomly on her head. A navy dress with tiny flowers was her uniform along with blue suede track shoes with white soles. She always carried a stack of Gnatsbridge Sights pamphlets in her voluminous apron. “Well now, I’ve got you in Unit 105 and I’ll walk you down there, show you where everything is.” 

“In 1905, when my great-grandfather homesteaded here, the river was barely a stream. Always clouded with flying bugs. Oh, he hated those wicked things. But, the town, struggling as it was, needed a bridge to get to the next town….that town’s gone now but they still needed a bridge to get to the main road. In those days, horse drawn wagons brought goods in from other towns. And we’re so glad you’re here but you wanted to know how our town was named…..you did, didn’t you?” Ma didn’t wait for a reply. “Well, building that bridge with only picks and shovels, hammers and nails was a big, sweaty job. The men complained and complained about the bugs. They fought them off ~ swarms of them, clouds of them very unhappy with having their stagnant river home disturbed. One day they were particularly bad. My great-grandfather told me ~ so I know it’s true ~ that all the men threw their tools down and left him alone. All of them grumbled but one of them hollered “You and those damn gnats and have their bridge!” Great grandfather smiled and said ‘Gnatsbridge. That’s what I’ll name the town.’

The man and woman looked at each other, rolling their eyes. She whispered to her husband “Do we dare ask how one man could name a town?” He looked panicked, shaking his head wildly. She touched Ma’s shoulder to stop her. Ma stopped in her tracks. “Yes dear? Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no. It’s just that my husband and I are extremely tired. You know, we’ve been driving a long time. We’ll freshen up and go to the restaurant for supper and it’s off to bed for us!”

“How disappointing! I’m not working in the restaurant tonight. But that’s ok, I’ll finish my story in the morning. You dears get a good supper and good sleep. Check out time isn’t until 11a.m. so we’ll have lots of time to chat in the morning.” 

~~~~~

Mr. and Mrs. Jones left at 4 a.m. leaving their key on the table, thanking the credit card gods that their payment had been made.

“Stories are like children. They grow in their own way.”

~ Madeleine L’Engle,  A Swiftly Tilting Planet

Author’s note: This story grew out of a writing exercise on the website writingexercises.co.uk 

The exercise: Town Name Generator: First I was to generate a town name: Gnat came up. The second step was to choose an ending. I chose: bridge. I liked the silliness of the name and a story began to form. It was fun!