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Why I Write
When I write, I draw on my experiences as a woman with a painful past, a rapturous wife and mother, a world traveler, and a spiritualist. For me, writing is an art form. Like an artist, the work becomes more than I imagined it would be. When I set out to write a story with a particular idea or character in mind, words I cannot claim as my own flow from a magical and mysterious place through me and onto paper. The work takes on a life of its own; it is living art. The process fascinates me, satiates me, and makes my life more meaningful.
Please read my stories! If you would like to offer me feedback on my work, please click here and sign up for a free membership: https://heftynicki.Writing.com
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My 15 For 15 Entries 9/18- 10/2/09 - #668249 added September 18, 2009 at 11:28am
Restrictions: None
Spetember 18 - Clock
Edna didn’t take her eyes off the mantel clock when her husband entered the living room. The neon green feathers in her duster moved soundlessly across the framed family photos on either side of the glass dome housing the delicate gold leafed heirloom. The minute hand crept across the three to the four.
“Where’s today’s paper?” Charles asked. He put his hands on his hips when his wife didn’t respond, eyes glued to the face of the clock. “Edna?” Irritation simmered in his voice.
Edna’s duster moved frantically across the frame of a smiling little boy in a baseball uniform, bat slung across his shoulder. Next, it flitted across the simple black frame with the boy grown up, wearing a solemn face and an Army uniform. Her feet seemed rooted to the spot, and the duster wandered back to the photo of the boy. Charles voice cut through the silence.
“Edna, the paper? I want to read the latest about Iraq…”
Edna interrupted him with an equal dose of irritation. “Shh!” she hissed. Her eyes grew round as she stared at the minute hand. Click. Ten-oh-five. She held her breath, duster stopped mid-air. Charles again broke the silence.
“Jesus, Edna. When are you going to stop this nonsense?”
She hung her head, then turned around. She heaved a heavy sigh. “That dream I had was so vivid,” she began. “There was a man, well, his hands anyways. And he was holding out to me a beautiful clock of light--”
“A crock of light, you mean,” Charles grumbled.
Edna eyed him darkly. “It means something. I know it in my heart. It was so real, I can still see it. The clock said five after ten. Something is going to happen at five after ten!”
“Honey,” Charles said, his voice warmer, “it was just a dream. What are you going to do, watch the clock like a hawk every day at five after ten? Twice a day?”
The doorbell rang, startling them both. Edna glanced at the clock. Who could that be at this hour of the morning?
She walked to the door with Charles at her side. When she opened it, her hands flew to her mouth. A gasp escaped her and as her knees went weak, she felt Charles grab her elbow. Facing them was their son, wearing his pristine Army uniform but the same smile he wore in the baseball picture.
“Oh my God!” cried Edna. “You’re safe, and home!” She and Charles threw themselves into their son’s arms.
He held them tightly and said into his mother’s silver hair, “I wanted to surprise you! I’ve been discharged. I’m home for good.”
Through their hugs and tears, Charles suddenly pulled away. “Jesus, Edna,” he said. “Isn’t today October 5th?”
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