Door Knocker
September 30, 2024 by Dianna Sinovic in category Quill and Moss by Dianna Sinovic, Writing tagged as flash Fiction, short fiction, writing
The staircase is steep, a small hill of thirty-five steps to ascend to reach your room. This was not in the description you read of the quaint New England hotel when you did your research. You realize quaint has more than one definition. The stairs are only the first of several aspects of this lodging that were omitted in the details provided. The second is that there are only three rooms in the hotel, because the first floor houses not only a podiatrist’s office but also a small gift shop (with only intermittent hours). The third omission is one you will come to realize as the day slips into night.
Room One overlooks a winding creek and a stand of white pine. You are glad for the quiet until the innkeeper informs you that you are currently the sole guest. When you push for a reason, she explains with a shrug that it’s the off-season in this tourist town. She also informs you that she leaves at five o’clock and then entrusts you with the security code for the hotel’s entrance.
The room has a coffeemaker, so you brew a cup and unpack your suitcase—only half full because you are only there for two days, the more important day being tomorrow, when you will give a presentation to a potential client.
At a table big enough for only your laptop and the cup of coffee, but with a serene view of the creek, you review your slides—which ones to edit and which to scrap. Tomorrow’s pitch holds the key to your future and that makes your hand shake as you raise the cup to your lips.
After a dinner down the block of grilled chicken and a side salad—you are trying to lose ten pounds!—you read in your room until nearly midnight. It’s after you turn out the bedside lamp that the noises begin.
First, a bump against the far wall of your room. Then a crackle. More bumps. Muffled voices arguing. This is the off-season; you’re the only one here this week. The innkeeper had told you this conspiratorially. Now you wonder if she somehow forgot about the guest next door.
You put a pillow over your head to block the noise, but the commotion seeps into your subconscious, putting you into an uneasy sleep with dreams of your PowerPoint slides disappearing as you click on them before a room full of people who frown.
Finally, at two-thirty, with the noise unabated, you pull on clothes and march to Room Two. The hallway lights flash on with your movement.
Taking a deep breath to steel yourself, you give a polite knock. No response, but you can hear sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, the thrum of a bass beat. A stronger knock. You consider how tired you will be by morning.
You raise your fist to pound on the door, and the noise ceases. The only sound now: a lone cricket chirping in the hallway behind you. The latch clicks and the door slowly swings open. The dim interior is illuminated only by a nightlight on the opposite wall. Beyond the doorway is silence—no movement, no whispers, nothing. And you remember that you are alone in this building.
The next morning, all is quiet next door, and as you splash water on your face, you wonder if what you remember was just a bad dream. After all, you are stressed: The success of your business hinges on how well you do today.
The crisp black slacks and stylish silk shirt hide those extra pounds, and you approve of the young woman looking back at you from the full-length mirror. Sipping coffee, you check your bag for the files you’ll need, then touch up your lip gloss. You’ve masked the circles under your eyes as best you can; you are not a night person, as much as your friends want you to be.
Checking your watch, you slip your laptop bag over your shoulder and open the door to leave. You have enough time to drive to the interview, stopping at Starbucks on the way. More coffee will either energize or frazzle you. So much for a good night’s sleep.
In the hallway, precisely centered before you, sits a white bakery bag, the top folded closed. You look left and right, but the hallway stands empty. Cautiously, you pick up the bag, noting that someone has written your name in neat script. A perk from the hotel?
The bag opens easily, and nestled inside is a frosted muffin: scents of butter, cream, and brown sugar waft up, and you dig out the treat. Along with the muffin, your hand catches on a slip of paper, which flutters to the floor.
Now ravenous, you bite into the muffin, then pick up the paper. Another bite finishes the muffin. Delicious, maybe the best muffin you’ve ever had.
You unfold the paper and read the words written in the same neat script:
Our apologies if our party disturbed your sleep. Please accept this peacekeeping gesture. You will get the job.
No signature, but you assume it’s from the innkeeper.
Oh, well. You crumple the bag, hoping at the truth of her positive message.
When you arrive at the appointment, the client job offer is waiting for you; no presentation needed.
Back at the hotel, you thank the innkeeper for the morning muffin and share your good news.
“Muffin?” she says, her eyebrows raised.
Some of Dianna’s stories are in the following anthologies.
Tracy Reed: Our September Featured Author
September 29, 2024 by Tracy Reed in category Apples & Oranges by Marianne H. Donley, Featured Author of the Month tagged as Beautiful Men, fashion, Sophisticated Romance, the Big Apple, Tracy Reed
Tracy Reed: Our September Featured Author
A California native, novelist Tracy Reed pushes the boundaries of her Christian foundation with her sometimes racy and often fiery tales.
After years of living in the Big Apple, this self proclaimed New Yorker draws from the city’s imagination, intrigue, and inspiration to cultivate characters and plot lines who breathe life to the words on every page.
Tracy’s passion for beautiful fashion and beautiful men direct her vivid creative power towards not only novels, but short stories, poetry, and podcasts. With something for every attention span.
Tracy Reed’s ability to capture an audience is unmatched. Her body of work has been described as a host of stimulating adventures and invigorating expression.
Find Tracy on Social Media
Books by Tracy Reed
Peeking into the Past
September 28, 2024 by Alina K. Field in category Quarter Days by Alina K. Field tagged as Alina K. Field, Historical Research, Quarter Days
One of the most enjoyable things about writing historical fiction is falling down the research rabbit hole.
Yes, I know authors of contemporary fiction have to do research also. Not disrespecting other writers. Just saying that historical research is, in my view, lots more interesting.
I especially like to read memoirs, and collections of letters. I have a couple of print books in my memoir collection, and more that I picked up from Google Books and Project Gutenberg. Though social norms and societal expectations might have changed, people’s wants and desires haven’t changed that much.
Another print book recently came into my collection, from my sister who was shuffling her collection of books for a cross-country move. It’s our grandmother’s geography text from her school days:
Old like Us
I’m up there in years, and as I was the second youngest of all the many grandchildren, this book is also old. In fact, it’s from the century before last. It was copyrighted in 1897, and that’s the year Grandma received it, inscribing it with her name and “her Book, Dec. 26, 1897.”
What I love is that, like a kid from my generation, the grandma who I knew as a very old, very proper octogenarian doodled and scribbled on the interior and exterior covers. In one place there are her initials in a pin-point design; in another, a penciled flower drawing; and a math problem when she maybe ran out of scrap paper.
And then there are these schoolgirl ditties from others:
Remember me early
Remember me late,
Remember me at
The Golden Gate
And this one:
Dear friend,
Love me little
Love me long
Love me when
I’m dead and gone
And:
These few lines are tendered
By a friend sincere and true
Hoping but to be remembered
By an honest friend like you
And this last:
Dear Sister
When on this page
you chance to look
remember it was
your sister that
wrote this in your book.
That one is rather poignant, because grandma’s sister died the following year.
A Budding School Teacher
Grandma was seventeen when she acquired this book, and she went on to become a country schoolteacher before marrying, having six children, and carrying out her share of the responsibilities of running the family farm–gardening, canning, cooking, cleaning, clothing everyone, etc. Her only water was pumped from a cistern, and she cooked on a wood stove. It makes me tired thinking about it!
Do you have any old treasures like this in your personal collection? Share in the comments, please!
Have a wonderful autumn, and I’ll see you at my next Quarter Days post.
Hurricane by Neetu
September 26, 2024 by Neetu Malik in category Poet's Day by Neetu Malik tagged as hurricane, leaky ceiling, Neetu, rain
Hurricane
last night’s hurricane blew the roof off
pieces of felt lay on the street like bits of rubber tires
blown off a moving car mundane occurrences
don’t matter insurance will cover damages it’s
only stuff replaceable in all events except
life that breathes skin that is drenched in the rain or tears
the hand that held yours when others crept away and you
were alone looking at the leaky ceiling with
the roof partly gone streaks of cloud visible perhaps none
of the storm strikes you as odd just the leaking heart you hear
drip drip drip
© Neetu Malik
Some of Neetu’s Books
Avocado the Penguin by Kidd Wadsworth
September 25, 2024 by Kidd Wadsworth in category Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as avocado the Pengin, children's story, humor, kidd wadsworth
Avocado the Penguin
I decided to enter the KidLit Chuckle Challenge. I had 200 words to make someone laugh. In addition, I was required to use two of the six writing prompts given. I chose ‘Avocado the Penguin’ and ‘Broccoli.’ My entry is below. The italicized illustration note does count toward the total 200 words.
Illustration: Penguin and Poodle are drawn like fruits/vegetables with faces. As their names change, they change.
Avocado groaned. “Why would anyone name a penguin after a squishy green tropical fruit?”
“Or a dog after a vegetable?” Broccoli the Poodle said.
“I hate my name,” said Avocado.” My penguin friends all have wonderful names like Big Wing and Small Wing, and Medium-sized Wing, and Slightly-Smaller-than-Big-Wing, and A-Touch-Bigger-than-Small-Wing.”
“Isn’t that confusing?” Broccoli asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind. What name would you like?”
“Pear. It has such a nice sound: Pear the Penguin, or Pear-with-really-humongous-wings, or Pear-Penguin-with-wings-bigger-than-a-Killer-Whale’s-fin, or—”
“Stop! I can’t take it anymore.”
“You don’t like Pear?”
“No.”
“How about Butternut Squash Penguin or Eggplant-with-gorgeous-wings or—”
“How about Waddles,” Broccoli said.
“I don’t waddle.”
“What about Stands-all-day-with-tired-feet or Doesn’t-know-to-go-south or Has-anyone-seen-my-egg?”
“NO!”
“Well, those names are way better than large-bottomed-fruit-of-the-happy-wing.”
“Wait, that’s close, real close.”
“Really? You’re so frustrating.”
“What would you like your name to be?” Penguin asked.
“Udon Noodle Poodle. Notice how it rhymes.”
Penguin nodded, “Sophisticated.”
“I know.”
“Oh! Oh! I’ve got it,” Avocado shouted. “Cheese Curd Bird.”
“Wow, that’s FANTASTIC.”
“Udon Noodle Poodle, can I really change my name?”
“Yes, Cheese Curd Bird.”
“Thanks.”
Happy Writing!
Kidd
Some of Kidd’s stories are in the following anthologies:
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