TINY TUESDAY EXERCISE (m)
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TINY TUESDAY EXERCISE (m)
| Tue, 10-16-2001 - 9:41am |
TINY TUESDAY EXERCISE (m)
Here's a little exercise to flex those writing muscles:
Pick an object around your house that has some meaning for you. Close your eyes and feel its texture, smell it, taste it(if it's tasteable), take in as many of its aspects as possible. Now write a short (500 words or less) fictional story using the object. You can base your fiction on fact or just go wild and make up a story.
Have fun.
Linda

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TTE (m)
A little long, but I cut out everything I thought I could.
THE PEWTER SNUFFBOX
Diane Reece climbed the stairs to the stuffy attic of the small stone house, where Alice Forrester had stored the detritus of her life, and stepped into the small circle of light from the bare bulb above her head. The old house rang with emptiness at every footstep.
"I don't think she'd been up there in a while," the landlady called from below. "She was pretty crippled up the last few years."
"She didn't have any friends or relatives that would want this stuff?"
"None that the mister and me could find. Just her caregiver, and she didn't want none of it." Her footsteps faded on the bare oak floors below. "Well, I'm off. Just lock the door behind you when you leave."
"Thanks. Will do."
Diane dusted off a ripped, sagging green hassock and sat down to open the first box. She sometimes felt like a vulture, buying people's lives and selling what she could at her little shop on Division Street.
Nothing much here. She opened another box. A few old dresses -- World War II vintage. They might bring something. Another box, photographs. Old pictures sometimes sold, especially from that time period. These must be of her. Pretty woman, wonder who the man is. A box of old china, each perfect piece carefully wrapped in tissue. Might have been wedding china. Wonder why she never used it? Whatever it was, it would bring a good price.
She marked each box with a felt tipped pen as she went through them, noting the contents and adding a cautious dollar value. She had just gone through the last cardboard box when she noticed a battered shoe box, tied with cord, caught in a dusty sunbeam at the end of the attic under the ventilation window.
Curious, she knelt and picked it up. Something about the unassuming box screamed its importance. She untied the string and opened it, feeling, somehow, that she held the heart of Mrs. Forrester's reclusive life in her hands.
Inside was a clutch of papers and a small pewter snuffbox. She picked up the little metal box. About an inch and a half wide by four inches long, and barely a half inch deep, it was surprisingly heavy for its size. It rested on four tiny pewter balls -- one at each corner of the box. The pewter was so worn, it was a soft yellow gold in places and the sides were covered with a filligree of tiny branches, leaves, and berries. Across the bare top was etched, "World's Fair 1893". Too old to have been purchased by Mrs. Forrester. Maybe a family treasure.
She opened it, vaguely aware of the metallic scent on her fingers. She let out her breath as she lifted a small yellowed card with a single fragile curl of red brown hair taped to it. Across the top, in neat print, it said, "Elizabeth Ann Forrester". It was baby fine.
She placed it back in the snuffbox and set it aside to go through the papers in the shoebox. Her marriage certificate, dated September, 1943. A picture of a somber young man in Army uniform and cap. A love letter in a faded envelope, sent from Italy in October, 1943. "My darling Alice, I miss you so much ..." It was signed, "Harold". A telegram from the War Department, dated a few weeks later, announced his death. Diane wondered if they'd sent someone to her door too. She hoped they had.
The last piece of paper brought tears to her eyes. The frayed document, filled out in the broad inked lines of a fountain pen, was a death certificate dated March 3, 1944, for Baby Forrister -- born at 3:00 P.M., died at 3:02.
She leaned back on her heels and sighed. The story of a life, wrapped in a shoebox; the story of a death, a fragile curl in the little pewter container.
She took out her cell phone and called her husband. "I'm finished at Mrs. Forrister's. Yes. I'll see you in a few minutes." She picked up the pewter snuffbox. "Honey, do you know where she was buried? I'd like to stop by her grave on the way home."
THE END
cl-ozarker
"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway
I thought this was a very touching little portrait...
I loved the idea of a whole life in a shoebox - it made my heart ache to think of her losses connected to such simple little items...
Very good description of the objects, too!
Wendy
beautiful, Ozarker (m)
wish I'd written this one! Great detail and precision, very touching. Loved it.
e
Sad but sweet (m)
I loved the way you unfolded the story, giving us the pieces of the puzzle as we needed them. I was wondering if Diane should've asked the landlady where Alice was buried instead of her husband. Just a thought.
I really enjoyed your TTE, Linda.
Mac
Tiny Hands & Old Toys (m)
Walking into the guestroom, I noticed the skin-horse had been moved again. I slapped the dustrag over my shoulder and bent down to pick it up, being careful not to hit my head. As I had found it many times before, the toy was in the far corner of the room where the ceiling slanted at a steep angle down towards the top of the hewn-log wall. This side of the upstairs bedroom was difficult for an adult to walk upright but not a problem for children.
Being a collector of primitives, I was especially thrilled when I came across the skin-horse in one of the antique malls downtown. After inquiring about the price, I wrote a check for the $620.00 the dealer was asking. In my mind, I knew it was more than a fair price for an item of its quality and didn’t bother with bickering over the price. The wheels were still in tack on its wooden platform and there was slight wear on the horse’s hide but the eyes and imitation leather saddle was in almost in perfect condition. As common in toys circa 1877, the horse’s mane and tail had been trimmed or had simply worn thin from being played with.
The horse smelled as dusty as it looked so I took my dustrag and started to wipe it clean. But I stopped when I noticed something I'd never seen before. Standing straight under the overhead light, I studied the saddle closer. Most adults pick up the skin-horse from its wooden platform but a child would grasp the toy by its saddle in the exact spot where the tiny handprint was.
"Billy’s been at it again," I said aloud.
Not long after I’d started filling the guestroom with antiques toys, a little apparition made his presence known to us. He never spooked my husband or me and – in fact, he almost entertaining to have around – though he has disturbed my cats on occasion. Overall, Billy (that’s what I nicknamed him, as I have no history about our ghost) was harmless; he just liked to play with the toys like any normal child would.
One evening, I noticed my cat, Sherlock, gazing intently up the stairway. Sensing that he was watching Billy, I tiptoed across the living room and stared in the same direction. Although I feared he’d disappear should the stairs creak (as they often did), I climbed one step at a time, all the while gazing wide-eyed into the bright moonlit room. I was only able to catch a small glimpse of him. As I suspected, he vanished a few moments after I reached the stair’s landing.
From what I saw, he was a little boy around three years of age I’d guess. His sandy-blonde hair fell into a bowl cut style surrounding his round face. His clothing was that of a full-length white nightgown, a common practice in the old days. Since it was known that the Angel of Death took the lives of boys more often then the females, many women dressed their young sons in gowns in hopes of fooling death and protecting their sons.
This trick, however, didn’t work for young Billy.
As usual, I placed the skin-horse back on nightstand after dusting it and then continued the clean the room. Finishing up, I turned out the lights and whispered, “Okay, Billy, I’ve got him all cleaned up for you” as I left the room.
Wonderful story mac. (m)
I loved this gentle story of the little boy ghost and his horse. I did notice a couple of typos-- ...wheels were still in tack (should be intact) ...eyes and imitation leather saddle was (should be were) ...in fact he(left out was)
I think you could sell this. It was quiet but evocative.
Linda
cl-ozarker
"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway
Thanks wendy. (so good to have you back!)n/t
cl-ozarker
"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway
Thanks e.(n/t)
cl-ozarker
"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway
Thanks mac. (m)
LOL I had her ask her husband because (a)the landlady was already gone (heheheh), and (b)because I read that people who purchase estates sometimes get the name, etc. through the obituary piece which usually tells where the person will be buried.
Glad you liked the story.
Linda
cl-ozarker
"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway
Cute story Mac. I would have been totally frecked out by (m)
the tiny hand printed on the skin-horse saddle.
I enjoyed your story.
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