Stories from the Stringam Family Ranches of Southern Alberta

From the 50s and 60s to today . . .



Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Pure Fiction

Clara studied her only daughter’s face.
Emma was lit up from the inside, delicate features a dynamic play of barely-contained emotion. It was like watching a still pool of pure, clear water breaking into soft ripples of movement. Unconstrained and uncontainable. Like the only thing keeping her together was her rose-tinted skin.
Her girl was in love.
Clara’s eyes turned to the young man seated at her daughter’s right. This stiff and stalwart-looking individual with his mortician’s hands and his thin, aesthetic face. Could her daughter – hers and Reggie’s – possibly have made this colossal a . . . mistake?
She turned toward the stage, where Reggie and his troupe were just finishing up their 9:00 set. What would her husband’s reaction be? Would he treat this proposed addition to their little family with courtesy? Or, more probably, would he rear back at the unintentioned insult and explode in artistically unsuppressed emotion. Then drag what could have been their future son-in-law out to the blacktop and toss him into the first available taxi bound for Timbuktu?
She sighed again as her daughter chattered endlessly, ceaselessly, enthusiastically on. Should she say something? Try to turn this particular ship before it hit the great reef looming before them? Should she interfere?
She tuned in to what Emma was saying. “. . . and I was so excited when I met Alphonse.” She linked hands with the sober young man beside her. “He loves jazz! Why he listens to it every day in the mortuary! He is exactly what Daddy told me to look for in a husband!”
Clara put out a hand and touched her daughter’s shoulder gently. “Oh, honey,” she said. She glanced down at the musicians on the stage. Heard the smooth, perfect notes of ‘Take Five’ pouring from Reggie’s Sax and sighed. Then she turned back to her daughter. “Honey, what your father told you to bring home was a Jazz MUSICIAN!”

Every week, Delores of Under the Porch Light doles out a challenge.
Six words. Use them. 
These are last week's words because I'm just that far behind.
insultedblacktopmortician, jazzdynamicinterfere      
Drop by and see what the others of her faithful band of misfits have come up with . . .                                            

16 comments:

  1. I loved this from the first paragraph of great writing - and it just kept getting better!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you so much, Susan!
      I'm so bummed that I forgot the line about the mortician listening to jazz in his mortuary! It doesn't make sense without it! Would you mind reading it again . . . ? :)

      Delete
  2. This is why I love reading your blog every day - great writing and great stories!

    ReplyDelete
  3. Well...maybe the mortician plays jazz...or at least likes it.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Aargh! It wasn't until I read your comment that I realized I left out the line that talks about him listening to jazz in his mortuary. Sigh. Could you read it again?!

      Delete
  4. HEY!!!!!!!!!!!!!WHADAYAMEAN MISFITS??????? Did you really think I wasn't going to read that eventually?

    ReplyDelete
  5. Hee hee! Jazz mortician! Someone needs an ear tune-up :)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you Jenny. I had forgotten a line and you're the first person to read it complete. Now it makes sense! :)

      Delete
  6. I love this exercise it looks so fun! Of course you have to have an amazing imagination like yours!

    ReplyDelete
  7. Musician-Mortician; they do sound similar.
    Still, if Emma is happy with her jazz loving mortician perhaps Clara and Reggie can learn to like him too. and who knows? Maybe Alphonse keeps a secret saxophone in his office.
    This is a lovely story.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. There are definitely jazz roots there. And where there's a basis . . .

      Delete

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